Nothing Is Unbreakable
by RedWritingRebel
Summary: A brutal battle in a warehouse stir tension amongst the brothers. 2 weeks later that tension erupts in an epic fight between Raph and Leo; resulting in the red-clad turtle storming off. Suffering from unrelenting insomnia and deepening depression, he is ambushed and easily defeated. Now the only question left for his brothers: is he alive? Dripping angst and bloody good violence.
1. Chapter one: Protector Of Thy City

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own them. . . _yet._**

**A/N: Hello! and welcome to my first ever TMNT fanfic. I've been working of this for awhile and finally decided to post it. A few things you should know: I suck at first chapters, I rewrote this about four times and am still not completely satisfied with it (course, I could be a little overly critical. You decide!); I love reviews-reviews of any kind-but especially those that tell me how I can improve; Updates will depend solely on you, that's right, you (point). I'm not asking for much, just a small piece of your mind-sound fair? Good. Cause, if ya don't, I'll be forced to wait at least _two whole weeks_ before I update again. . . well, that's what I promised myself I'd wait.**

**Lastly, I began writing this fan fic as another method of improving my professional writing, so in essence, this is a novel built of exercises. Thusly, I posted my exercise goals-which you can give me a pass or fail on if you so desire.  
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**Good fun, no?  
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**Okay, enough of my rambling. Here is Chapter One: Protector of Thy City.  
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_Word count: 5994_**  
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_Exercise Goal: Set the mood and emotionally connect the readers with the Focal Character._

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_**Chapter one**_

_**Protector Of Thy City**_

**Date: February 3; Time: 12:58 am**

The icy February wind whipped pins and needles over my mask-less face, numbing my unused adrenaline spike. It was too cold to sit still, but I was anyways. Watching a shadowy figure pace across the blanketed rooftop with my hands in my pockets. My fingers were numb, which made me wonder how my little friend—being coat-less and reptilian—wasn't frozen yet.

He _was_ the one who always liked winter, I guess. Never actually said it, but if being either dragged out of my home or called in the middle of the night _every_ night was any indicator... I'd say it's a pretty good guess.

The city of New York was, for once, silent. No cries for help. No laughter. No drunken slurs. Not a single damn person wandering the streets. All safely confined in their homes or huddled around fire with others who had nowhere to go—kinda like how I should be.

To say the least, it bugged me. I had nothing to do, no one to protect, no scumbags to bust. What a waste of a night... Think it bugged my friend more. I was more than ready to head home. Knowing him, he wouldn't go home until he had to.

He paced towards me, eyes not looking up from the snow scuffing under his feet.

"Slow night, huh Raph?"

Bloodshot, golden eyes snapped up; hands flinched to his belt.

I stiffened, sliding off the edge cautiously. _Jeez, jumpy ninja._

"Oh," he relaxed, looking to the dimly lit street below—an usual hot spot for crime. But apparently a little bit of bad weather deterred the cockroaches of society enough to send them back into the crap holes they crawled out of.

"Yeah, Case, slow night." he muttered, walking to the edge of the building with all the grace of a prowling tiger and peering down into the alley below. Raphael's red mask caught in the wind as he leaned forward.

There was a club a few blocks down with music so loud we could usually hear it on the rooftops. It made beating the crap out of scumbags all the more fun. Another reason this was a great stop on patrols. It's silent now. The owner must have shut down for the night.

"Damn slow night." he repeated. "Ain't a single freakin'..." he trailed off, hefting himself onto the ledge and, once again, pacing. "What's wrong with the criminal element nowadays, Case? Ya see a little bit of snow and suddenly it's like they're an endangered specie or somethin'... nev'a around when ya need `em."

I smirked at his analogy. " `s too bad they ain't." —on both accounts, Raph looked like he needed to take his anger out on someone.

Wispy white clouds materialized as he chuckled low. He'd been pretty quiet the last couple of weeks, preferring to just get on the streets and smack some heads than have our usual 'conversational' rounds. This was the first time he talked all night, besides when he pounded on my window and invited me to "grab yer bag and come on." Made me wonder what his problem was tonight.

Like I couldn't guess.

"So, ya wanna talk about it, or just keep pacin' `til ya fall off the roof?"

His obsessive movement halted, one foot dangerously hovering in empty air. Golden eyes darted my way, clouded and angry. He grunted. "Screw _talkin'."_ he turned and continued his track. "And screw Leo, too. Freakin' arrogant, self-righteous pain in my shell—" his voice dropped to a mummer; head shaking.

I could understand his sentiments towards his older brother. The guy could rub anyone the wrong way—but any of the turtles could, if you were around them long enough. Last time I paid a trip to the lair I was greeted with Red and Blue going at it like mortal enemies. Fists and words, none too kind. The two had some major problems...

I shifted my hockey bag, closing the short distance between us in heavy footed strides. I released a gusty sigh, "Look Raph, I know ya aren't a 'heart ta heart' kinda guy, but maybe ya should try talkin' to Leo."

He scoffed. "Not gonna happen."

"I'm just sayin', Raph, if it was my brother, I'd find a way to work it out."

"Casey?" Raph stopped a few feet from me. His head tilted down to stare into the alley.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Do me a favor and _shut_ _up."_

I usually wasn't inclined to listen to anybody's orders, but there was something about how Raphael said it, that made my mouth snap shut with an audible clank that rattled my teeth.

We stood there in silence. Raphael refusing to look at me, his head grasped firmly in one hand. For a moment, I thought that the red-masked ninja was having a breakdown, then I realized how stupid and unlikely that was.

_Is it really?_

"Uh, hey, I uh—I'm sorry, Raph. What goes on between you and yer bros is none of my business." he didn't respond. "Um, right. I just, ya know, don't like to see you guys fight." still, nothing. I shifted my feet awkwardly. "Raph?"

His shell was starting to ridicule me. A wall of obstinacy, worn with years of blocking blows and deflecting words. Kinda like now.

I tried again. With every word I sputtered out came absolute silence. Deepening; thickening. I could feel it swallowing the roof, noosing my neck and making it harder to form simple words. Foolishness sunk its fangs in me, its poison coursing through my veins, spreading. Spreading until I felt like a little boy again, talking aloud to myself in a dark room, under a dusty bed, on an empty street, in the cold rain. Talking until I realized how pointless the action was; it didn't help anything.

My voice fell flat, the last spoken words hitting the ground like lead weights; completely worthless and just waiting to be tripped over.

Only then, when I finally quit struggling for Raph's attention, did I realize he was teetering. Swaying back and forth. His fingers quivering in taut fists by his sides; anger spilling from one in heavy wet drops. Drops that stained the snow crimson.

He pitched forwards—

"Raph!"

—and my hand struck out with no thought. I caught his arm and jerked back. He stumbled from the edge, colliding into my chest with a surprised grunt. As soon as he caught his balance he ripped away. Staggering even then.

"What the hell, Case? Ya tryin' to kill me?"

"Me? You're the one tryin' to take a nosedive off the roof!" the blue fabric of my coat scraped at my skin.

"What the hell are ya..." he looked behind himself, back at me. "Nosedive?" he asked, suddenly quiet.

"Yes a nosedive!" I yelled. "Dammit Raph, you suicidal or somethin'?"

For half a beat he looked to the snowy floor, utterly mute. Then he laughed. Humorless and slightly wounded. Still, the sound made me want to punch him. "Nah Case, nothin' like that. Was jus thinkin'." another short chuckle.

"It ain't funny."

"Never said it was." his eyes refocused behind me, distant.

Suddenly I understood Leo's frustration. Even if whatever the whole fight was about had never been told to me, I _understood_ how Raph could be making his brother so mad.

Raph and his bros were like the little brothers I never had. So when one of them looked as if they were about to keel over, I not only took notice, I took the necessary actions. Raph wasn't one for coddling over-protectiveness—though, hypocritically, he was the most over-protective guy I knew—so the only other approach I knew of, was roughness.

One he was sure to appreciate.

Reaching forwards, I grabbed both his shoulders and gave my green friend a solid shake. That snapped both his attention and his anger back into place.

With a growl, he shoved me away.

"Yo, ya payin' attention now?"

"You're really startin' to piss me off—"

"Good."

"Good? Case, ya ev'a see me when I'm ticked? It ain't pretty."

I shrugged, indifferent. He just gritted his teeth.

"We should call it a night." I said as lofty as I could, his anger didn't diminish.

"Back off, Casey. You can go home wheneva ya want, I ain't."

"Whoa, I'm not tellin' ya to go home, man. Might make a good suggestion, but..." he narrowed his eyes at me, arms crossed and jaw set. I huffed out my own exasperation. "Look, it's freezin' out here, I can't feel my own toes and you're a turtle. Cold blooded, or whateva. "

"Yer point?"

"My point is it can't be too good for ya to be out here. We should head back to my place and crash there fer the night. Ya look like you could use the sleep."

"How's April?" Raph tactfully changed the subject.

"April?" I hesitated. "She's fine. As moody as any pregnant woman I've ever known. Why?" He quirked an eye ridge at me, a mocking smirk gave a dark light to his steady gaze. And what he was getting at smacked me in the face. "Oh..."

"Yeah, 'oh'. I already hafta deal with one mother hen _all_ freakin' day. So, no offense to April, but tiptoein' around an expectin' one doesn't sound like too much fun." he rubbed his jaw sorely, "Chick hits hard."

I laughed, remembering the last time April and Raph had ran into each other. I had made a little too much noise on the fire escape of our apartment, Raph had been ahead of me and opened the window. Apparently April heard the noise and thought it must have been a burglar, since ninjas are so quiet and I had _snuck_ out to bust some heads with Raph after April had fallen asleep on the couch. In my opinion, the turtle got it easy. He escaped after April had apologized for hitting him, then yelled at him, then apologized, then turned to yell at me.

Fun night.

"Figured out what yer gonna name it yet?" Raph snapped me from my reminiscing. His gaze was set off to the sky; the smoggy clouds weren't much to look at, but I joined him all the same.

"Nah, but April been goin' crazy with the namin' books. I think we have, like, fifty of `em." I slid a palm down my face, breaking away from the panorama. "Man, I still can't believe I'm gonna be a—a—a—well," I swallowed. "Ya know."

"A dad?" Raph offered, stealing a seat on the ledge. "Jeez, Case, yer gettin' cold feet already? It's like your weddin' all over again."

"It's a kid, Raph! A little, mushy baby that's gonna cry and poop and grow up to be a rebellious teen, like-like-like you!"—a ghost of a smirk flinted over his face—"Oh, I'm doomed. I—I'm not sure I can handle—"

"You'll do fine." he interrupted gruffly. "Splinter did alright, and he had four of us to deal with. . . _and_ he didn't have _nine_ _months_ to read up on raising brats."

"Yeah, but Splinter is, well, Splinter."

"And?" he flicked snow off the ledge, eyes locked on me from under his dark mask.

"And I'm Casey Jones, a major screw up who ain't wise and ain't the smartest guy in the world, ya know?"

Raph sighed. Sinking down lower on his seat, he rubbed his neck. "Look Case, ya might make a few more mistakes than other people. . . okay, a _lot_ more mistakes. But you're a good guy. Helped me and my bros out more than a few times." he shrugged. "Guess I'm tryin' to say you pull through when it matters the most." A wicked grin spread across his face, "Plus, ya have April. She'll more than make up for the lack of smarts on your part."

"Jeez, backhand much?"

"It's what I'm famous fer."

For a moment the howling wind was the only sound, drowning out even the dull mutter that was always present in New York.

"It would probably help if ya knew what 'it' was, ya know, when you're lookin' fer a name and all." Raph's tone was pointed, his question ringing in my ears even in its unspoken form.

"Hey, we don't know yet. If we did, you'd be the first one I'd tell, though."

He snorted, "Don't go gettin' all sentimental on me."

"Oh, so ya don't wanna hear what's April lettin' me decide?" A little bit of cheering up was exactly what my bud needed, so what better time to tell then right now?

"And what's that?" He asked, inspecting his palm with extreme indifference.

"Boy or girl," I said, a gleam in my eye. "The middle name's gonna be Raphael."

In a flash of red and green, he looked at me, stunned to say the least. A nervous laugh. "Don't do that, Case. It's a nice thought and all, but let's face it, the name _sucks._ Bad enough I hafta deal with it, and I live in the sewers. Just think of the poor kid walkin' on the streets with other humans." he shuddered humorously.

"What's wrong with the name? I like it." I hadn't expected him to be excited about it, but _come_ _on._ It's incredible to think what a little enthusiasm could do.

"Well that makes one of us." he rose from the snowy ledge, uncoiling like an alerted snake. "Don't get me wrong, Case." he clapped a hand on my shoulder a bit too heavily. "I'm honored. Shell, Splinter will probably be _thrilled_ I made such a. . . uh, great impression on somebody. Just, don't do anythin' yer kid will live to regret."

His voice hitched on the last word, an ever so slight change that plunged from gruffness to reflection. As if he deeply regretted something himself. Gut instinct told me it had to do with whatever him and his brother was fighting about.

A shrill ring came from my pocket. I fumbled for my phone, it was April.

When I looked up an emerald green hand waved me off. "Go home, Casey."

"Ya sure yer okay?"

He looked at me incredulously, "Don't need a babysitt'a. Now go home." his bandanna tail caught in the wind when he turned and stretched, working blood back into stiff limbs. "I'll be fine." and with that, he leaped.

Another piercing ring jerked my attention away from my disappearing friend and back to the device in hand.

Somehow, Raphael's words didn't convince me.

**~*~ Time: 1:23 am ~*~ **

The wind slapped me as I ran. An icy palm wrapping my body in its unforgiving grip, wintry fingers scratching at my walls. The onslaught intensified the faster I moved, shivers racking my 5 ft 2in frame.

I was an idiot for not grabbing a coat when I stormed out of the Lair over three hours ago. At the time, the thought of cold air was too tantalizing to pass up; and honestly I was too ticked to process the need of layers.

On the bright side, the cold helped clear my head. Course, it had nothing on going toe to toe with street punks who rightly deserved all the anger I could throw, but it was better than being locked up at home.

_Home? More like a war zone..._

I scoffed, miffed by the thought. Or maybe the lair would be better than patrolling these empty streets, at least than I'd having my punching bag.

_Or Leo's face..._

I shoved the thought away, silently cursing myself and my temper. Did Leonardo merit a few good punches? Sure. Was I in any position to lob them? No. I was more to blame than old fearless could ever be.

I slid to a stop, panting lightly as chilled sweat trickled down my body. I pivoted on my heels, eyeing the way I'd come with a sadistic grin. Already on the other side of the city, far from home and far from my brothers. Unintentionally I growled, took a seat on a ledge and, for the second time that night, stared down into an empty alley.

My _brothers._

Whether this mess was my fault or not, they were only making things worse.

My brothers didn't understand. None of them. They all just thought of me as the hothead who loved to start fights. As Raphael, the sarcastic, mean, quick to argue pessimist. I was the brother who always got them into trouble, always rushed into battles, always disobeyed orders. The one that's always too careless to 'think about the consequences'.

Or, in a word my eldest brother liked to use, reckless.

But it was so much more than that. There was so much they didn't understand. Didn't see. Could never know about.

Because I wouldn't let them.

Regardless, my brothers weren't helping things. Especially my eldest brother, _Leonardo._ Everything had to be a fight with him. Patrols were mangled into a freaking standoff between us, usual ending when Mike or Don suggested we split up into teams of two. Family meals were defaced with us glaring daggers at each other, just because one of us _moved_ wrong in the other's eyes. A few time I'd been pretty close to throwing the table aside to wipe that look off his face.

Sparring was contorted, all too often, into something closely resembling a death match. Shell, simple training sessions, even with Splinter _in the room_, were turned into screaming brawls. The last one was his fault entirely, if he didn't feel the overwhelming need to put his two cents into everything I did, we wouldn't have had a problem.

Unless I managed to do something right, that is. _Ohhh_ no, that was met with utter silence from the oh-so_-perfect_ Leader.

Not that I cared anymore, it was nothing new to have my oldest brother look at me with that disappointed, 'you aren't good enough', 'I'm better than you' face that just made me want to knock his head in, just so I didn't have to see _that._

I stood, legs once again numbed, and began to pace. The more I thought about my brothers, about the fight Leo and I had just had, about the growing tension, the angrier I got. My fists clenched at my sides, aching to hit something just to release the pressure building inside. And that brick wall was well within reach.

I struck out. Stone cracking beneath my bare knuckles in a sickly satisfying way. I huffed, watching my breath condensate while I shook the needles out of my hand.

Leo's disapproving sigh ringed in the back of my mind, the insulting mutter of _hothead_ following in its wake.

Not that the title didn't fit me...

My shoulders sagged with a weary weight, hand coming up to rub the sudden sting from my eyes none-to-gently. Man I was tired of this. Tired of the looks, of the fights, of all the freaking _criticism._ Of always messing up...

So tired in fact, that lately even the simple task of waking up, of moving was a challenge. Training was getting increasingly difficult. Twice in the past week alone Splinter had offered me reprieves midway through training sessions—probably thought I was sick, or just didn't want to deal with me and Leo fighting again. Either way, I turned the offers down, tone a bit sharper than I had meant—though Splinter hadn't reprimanded me for it.

Donnie, our family's residential 'doctor', had also noticed my extreme lack of energy and diminished focus enough to pull me aside before training one day with a myriad of questions. I had brushed him off with a snide remark and nonchalant shrug. Donatello was not a stubborn turtle, perhaps the least stubborn of us all, actually. He was also the most leveled headed, slowest to anger and second overall laid back of the group. But when it came to health, he was fierce and unforgiving.

Just not fierce enough to outlast my bullheadedness. He finally backed off.

I wasn't sick. I just wasn't sleeping—something Casey obviously caught onto earlier.

I've always been somewhat of an insomniac. As a kid I would drive Splinter nuts, constantly sneaking out of bed to roam the tight quarters of our first lair. His ears were too good to miss the padded footsteps, and I wasn't exactly a master in stealth at the time.

Now, in my teenage years I spent my nights topside. In fact, I was topside more often than I was in bed—something I did every winter to take advantage of the longer nights. Course, the conflict between Leonardo and I was another motive for staying out longer and sleeping less.

But honestly, there was more to it than just insomnia...

I guess, there just didn't seem to be a point to life anymore.

Self doubt was nothing new to me, the cynic. Nor was self-hate. Early on in my unconventional life I discovered what screwing up implied. Topside it was being spotted or ambushed; In training, sparring or battles it meant injuries. With my temper it meant hurting one of my own brothers...

_You can't control yourself. You endanger them. . ._

The thoughts were hell born torture, bringing with them a fear I would never admit.

_You aren't good enough..._

Vivid nightmares of my brothers falling in combat, dying because I wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough.

_They'd be better off without you..._

Suicide had entered my mind at one time—I'd never admit it aloud—but was flung away with hot anger and disbelief, the whispered taunts of cowardice filling its place. Tonight I had no idea what happened. Nearly falling off a roof?

_They deserve better than you..._

That much I knew was true without a shadow of a doubt. Long ago I allowed the idea to take permanent residence within my brain, not once bothering to evict it.

_They hate you..._

Luckily, shoving things away was something I'd mastered at a very young age. With a strangled sigh, I buried it again, swallowed the feral scream I wanted so badly to release and curled my mouth into its usual scowl.

I directed my torn attention back to the streets below, "Shesh, if a little bit of snow 's all it takes..." I started, before movement caught my eyes, cutting me short. "Huh, spoke too soon."

I watched with mounting excitement and fluid disgust as three shadows approached a little store, unscrewed the sole light bulb, then took shelter behind a large dumpster. Minutes later the back door to the store opened, keys jangling in the night air as the owner locked up.

_Casey shouldn't have turned in early, he missed all the fun. Ah well, more for me._

I narrowed my eyes, the alley was pitch-black, hard to tell who the soon to be victim was. The scent of heavy perfume hit me, followed by dauntless humming.

_Okay, this lady's just askin' fer trouble._

I readied myself to pounce, body limber yet tense with anticipation. The young woman was passing the dumpster. The first thug jumped and so did I. I landed silently behind the trio, bathed in shadows that _my_ victims supplied. Ironic.

The scumbags wouldn't touch her, but if she's stupid enough to walk into a pitch-black alley; at two in the morning; alone; in freaking New York City... then she needed a healthy dose of fear to bring her into reality.

The humming stopped, replaced by a startled gasp and heels clanking backwards on concrete.

"That was an awfully nice tune ya was hummin' there, girly." the nearest man cooed, advancing on the girl with clear intentions, "Ya takin' requests?" His buddies joined him now, all three snickering as they backed the trembling woman further into the alley.

She opened her mouth, attempting to yell for help, but all that came out was an airless squeak. Briefly I wondered how it felt to be paralyzed by fear. I've never known the feeling.

"Ah, she's a shy one, Butch." the fattest one chuckled.

"P—pl—please," she managed, luminous eyes wide with horror.

This elicited another round of laughter from the three burly men.

"What's that, girly?" the leader, _Butch_ walked closer to her, leaving the other two a few feet back.

That should be enough.

I made my move, slamming the two goons' heads together with a reticent thud. They slumped unconsciously to the ground. I sprang forwards, grabbing the final, oblivious punk's wrist and yanking him away from the girl before his approaching fingers could make contact.

"What the—"

"Don't ya punks ever learn?" I growled, twisting the wrist until it snapped. I sent the thug stumbling into a wall, gasping in pain. "Ya think it's fun to attack a helpless little girl? Think ya can get away with it!"

These goons picked the wrong night.

The man faltered for half a second, "Look, I don' know who ya are, man, but no one messes with the Purple Dragons and lives." he hissed, his good hand pulling a pipe from his belt, "Billy, Floyd, let's teach this fool a lesson!"

I chuckled, "Yer pals are takin' a little nap."

The gangster cussed, eyes darting to the barely visible figures slumped on the ground.

The girl sobbed candidly in the murky corner, I tilted my head slightly at the cacophony, "Now, I don't appreciate punks like you terrorizin' innocent girls."

Without warning, Butch rushed me, taking a messy swing for my head. I dodged easily, delivering a knee to the man's back a moment later. "Son of a—"

Jerking the man up, I shoved him in to the wall, pinning him off the ground with his own filthy shirt. "Ya really want me ta break yer jaw, too?"

"Screw you! This city belongs to the Purple Dragons. You're on our turf, freak. You're a dead man."

I laughed, tightening my fist expectantly, "Wrong again, this city's mine, and I'm sick of filth like you pollutin' it."

Butch spat in my face.

My anger boiled and I jerked him an inch higher, "Big mistake."

In the few minutes that followed, I laid a dozen punches into the thug's gut and face. The man was begging now, cussing every few words and trying to escape, but I wasn't done. With all the anger that pulsed though my veins coiling behind one tightly fisted hand, I allowed my fist to fly, unrestrained and collide squarely with the punk's nose.

A sickening crack echoed off the alley's walls, Butch collapsed in a heap.

_Man that felt good..._

I kicked the unconscious man once more for good measure before blowing out a constricted breath and turning to the girl. She was cowering in a corner, her purse held in front of her face like a bemused shield.

I cleared my throat, forcing my voice into a friendly tone, "Are ya al`ight, miss?" I winced when she backed further away.

"P—pl—pl—please, d—don't hu—hurt me." she pleaded, voice crocking.

"I ain't gonna hurt ya." I knelt in front of her, grateful for the heavy shadows cloaking my inhuman features.

Her trembling hands lowered the handbag, she glanced behind me, examining my handiwork.

"You're safe now." I insured her, looking her over the best I could in the dark—even though no one had laid a hand on her. She was young, maybe twenty, luminous blue eyes and light hair twisted into a bun.

She nodded slowly, pushing herself up until she was standing, "Thank you, f—for saving me."

That was rare...

"You're welcome." I said gruffly, standing up. A beat of silence, I cleared my throat again, "Ya should call the cops."

The girl nodded quickly, fumbling with her purse and finally fishing out a cell phone. I backed up, ready to leave. "Wait!" she called, forcing a pause. "You—you aren't going to leave me here! Alone! With them!" she jabbed a trembling finger blindly at her attackers.

_And here we go..._

"You'll be fine, they'll be out fer awhile."

"But—but—but—"

"Look, call the cops and wait inside until they come," I gestured to the building, "You'll be fine."

Fully expecting a panicked argument, I was surprised when the girl bit her lip and nodded obediently, moving toward the door on shaky legs, phone pressed to her ear.

I positioned myself to leap to the waiting fire escape, taking pause long enough to offer obvious advice, "Oh, and ya really should consider locking up earlier, New York's a dangerous place." with that I disappeared to the roofs above.

_Well, at least the night wasn't a total waste._

**~*~ Time: 3:02 am ~*~ POV: Raphael  
**

It was three in the morning when I took the final bend in the sewers and entered my home. I channeled every ounce of stealth I possessed and focused on reaching the nearest bathroom without being caught. All I wanted was a hot shower and my warm bed. Yet I knew from experience that was too much to hope for.

"Where have you been?"

I straightened, turning to my older brother with an annoyed sigh, "Not in the mood, Fearless."

Leonardo crossed his arms over his chest, staring at his me with that arrogant, disappointed look. His lecture pose. "You're never in the mood, Raph."

_Oh fer the love of. . ._

I crossed the room in long strides, stopping barely a yard from where my brother stood in the living room. I knew very well that getting so close to Leo was a bad idea when we were fighting, venomous words often escalated to physical blows between us. But I was fully finished with these constant arguments; and irked by Leo staying up until three in the morning, just so he could ambush me with a lecture, again. _Every freakin' time._

Leonardo tensed at my approach, sliding a foot back imperceptibly before catching himself and squaring his shoulders to match my slightly taller frame.

_Amusing._

Cool steel and blazing amber orbs met, glaring, willing the other to turn away through shear animistic intimidation.

"What the hell is yer problem, Leo?" I seethed, voice low enough not to wake the others, yet loud enough to shatter the blissful silence.

"_My_ problem?" his voice was stoic, stressing only enough to make his point, "I'm not the one out playing vigilante every night." he raised an eye ridge, "Or the one trying to catch _another_ case of pneumonia." Leo gaze narrowed, looking me over with a critical eye, as if something was off.

My posture was still rigid from adrenaline, maybe more so than usual. It might have been from the cold still slithering through my veins, but... "What's wrong with you?" the question was pointed, the tone wavering between concern and suspicion.

I just laughed, the sound bitter in the stiff air. "None of yer freakin' business, Fearless."

He bristled, "As leader your safety is my responsibility, Raph, so whether you like it or not, _it is my business_." his voice held an edge as cutting as his katana blade, a tone that usual reigned during these ever infamous verbal quarrels.

And drove needles under my skin. He damn well knew that, too.

I scoffed, casting a wayward glance toward my increasingly desired room, before pulling my sharp glare back to Leonardo's expecting face. My fingers tensed like a coiled snake; ready to strike.

Leo's eyes were alert, watching me carefully, experience clearly warning him of the gesture. "You aren't turning this into another argument, Raphael."

_I was thinkin' combat..._

"Thought it already was." I snarled, "Or is this just another freakin' lecture I've heard a thousand times before?"

"Get off it, Raph." Leo soughed, placing his forest green hands on his hips in clear exasperation, I crossed my own arms in response. "I'm only trying to do what's best for you, for this family—"

"And I'm not?" I interrupted through clenched teeth, anger flaring.

"No!" he snapped, massaging his temples with palpable frustration, "Shell, Raph, why can't you just grow up. Not everything is an attack on you, I am not your enemy. . . . . . ."

I glared at my brother with biting contempt. I really didn't want to get in another fight with Leo, but the self-righteous bastard was pushing it. If this fight did come to blows and woke the others up, Splinter would have a shell of a long lecture in store—which Leo would, of course, get out of. And sitting through _that_ at three in the morning while Sensei wore that chagrined look was _not_ something on my wish list

Better to just walk away...

Still, I was never one to walk away from a fight; or give any ground in an argument; or let _Leo,_ of all people, think for even half a second he'd won a dissension.

I glanced toward my room again, could make a bolt for it... or maybe for the bathroom. A shower _would_ be nice—

". . . . . . .Are you even listening to me?"

My attention snapped back to my brother in blue, who had his arms extended tightly around his chest, a half questioning, half annoyed grimace encasing his features.

_Man, I've gotta quit zoning out like this. I'm turnin' into Mikey._

I forced a smug grin, shrugging with all the sympathy of a cornered tabby cat, "Don't care ta." I answered. Yeah, that sounded like me, completely nonchalant.

Drove my brother nuts.

Leo inhaled sharply, jaw working to swallow angry words better left unsaid. "See, that's what I'm talking about. You never listen to me. You always have to make things harder than they have to be; fight me on every order. It's like you hate—" he checked himself, "— hate me being the leader."

I sneered at him, seriously reconsidering ripping him a new one, lecture or no lecture.

He rushed on, "Maybe if you weren't so stubborn you could realize that I might actually know what I'm talking about."

"Oh yea, 'cause the all powerful Leonardo is always right, huh?" I jeered, "We couldn't survive without yer superior shell to guide us through our problems."

"That's not—quit putting words in my mouth." Leo fumbled—apparently he needed some sleep too. "All I'm saying is if you would just stop and list—"

"Screw this, I'm goin' to bed." Broad shoulders bumped as I fled to my bedroom with little haste.

"Raphael!" Leo hissed behind me. Clearly he was frustrated.

Like I gave a damn.

"We aren't done here."

"Go ta bed, Fearless." I called over my shoulder, climbing the stairs to the second story.

I could feel the _leader's_ eyes boring into my shell, until I finally arrived to the quiet safety of my small, familiar room.

With a gusty sigh, I flung my exhausted body into the well worn hammock that passed as my bed and allowed my heavy lids to close. I felt safe in the swaying cloth, warm despite the chill that still clawed at my frayed nerves. Sleep had never sounded so good or so welcoming to me.

However, I would get no sleep tonight.

* * *

**A/N: Hmmmmm... what do ya think? Anyone seem too OOC? I mean, Raphael, of course, but it's for good reason-I swear! Also, how did you like the dialogue of Casey and Raph, too much of an accent on them? You know how to tell me-review!  
**

**Thanks for reading! ^_^**

(P.S. I promise Chapter two is _**way**_ better.)


	2. Chapter two: Thy Brother, Thy Enemy

**Disclaimer: Jeez, I already said I don't own them, now you want me to say it again? That's just cruel.**

**An author's appreciation: Hey all! First off, I'd just like to thank everyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed Nothing is Unbreakable. You all made my day(s)! Seriously, every review made me smile (my face hurts now =P).  
**

**A/N: Okay, so I LOVE this chapter. Whether from disillusion or because it really is great, you decide.  
**

**Also, I sorta... switched from first person past tense to first person present tense halfway through this chapter (when you switch to Raph's POV). I hope it isn't too jarring, but I couldn't bring myself to rewrite the first half from past to present.**

**Lastly, there is a bit of a warning on this chapter: Leo might be just a teeny tiny bit OOC (I could be wrong.). And since he doesn't have a section in this chapter (though I very nearly gave him a piece) I feel the need to tell y'all that I'm not Leo bashing or trying to make him look like the bad guy. In fact, if you bare with me, things will become clearer and you might even find yourself feeling sorry for the guy.**

**Without further ado here is Chapter two: Thy Brother, Thy Enemy  
**

_Word count: 5200_

_Exercise Goal: Successfully present two sides of an argument in a fair light, while remaining emotionally considerate of the Focal Character. Do so from a different point of view._

* * *

_**Chapter two**_

_**Thy Brother, Thy Enemy**_

**Date: February 3; Time: 7:02 am . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . POV: Donatello**

I breathed in the aroma of pure black coffee, blowing contently on the steam that wafted up. The sound of sizzling eggs and Michaelangelo's early morning humming kept the room from lapsing in to an uncomfortable silence; seeing that I rarely talked before I had a healthy dose of caffeine in my system (without snapping my brothers' heads off).

Mikey and Leo were morning people; while Raph and I operated in the nocturnal hours—like _reasonable_ people.

So, the sight of Mike dancing around while he cooked was nothing new; nor was the sight of my immediately younger brother stalking into the kitchen like the living dead.

"Morning Raphie-boy!" Mike chirped, delivering the finished eggs to the battered oak table top with an overly bright smile. The smell made my stomach growl.

Raphael grumbled an incoherent reply, moving past Mike to reach the cupboard. I took a sip of my coffee, watching edgily as Raph poured the black gold into a chipped, rust colored mug and took a long drink—rather oblivious to the heat, one might add.

Mike caught my groggily glare and raised an eyebrow in the red-masked turtle's direction. I could tell he was holding back at least a dozen joking jabs at both me and Raph by the way his mouth wavered. A very rare feat, but one I've seen a lot of the past few days—at least when it came to Raph, that is.

I ignored Mikey, returning to the brim of my own cup to survey my younger brother.

Clearly my hotheaded sibling had not gotten any sleep last night; besides the slumped shoulders, dragging feet, and blood shot eyes that rivaled his dark mask, Raph was drinking coffee.

He _hated_ coffee.

Gave me shell for drinking it every morning. Hypocrite.

I shook my head, remembering the hushed voices of my brothers as they quarreled late last night. Neither could have achieved more then three hours of rest. . .

Shell, I really needed to talk to Raph. He'd been reluctant to answer any of my questions on his health; which seemed to be declining. Ever since that battle at the warehouse two weeks ago he's been acting strange. Candidly, I worried that between that now-healed laceration on his leg and the east river water he might have contracted some kind of sneaky infection. After all, Leo was the one to drag all of us home and patch Raph up, me giving instructions through the daze of a concussion.

Combine that with good old turtle luck—which Raph seems to have in spades—and you've got a high probability that I'm correct on the problem. Though, the hothead didn't display any of the obvious signs of infection: fever, chills, confusion, rapid pulse, loss of appetite, weight loss, night sweats; save his apparent fatigue. No, not an infection. . . maybe—

The new sizzle of bacon and more coffee being poured snapped me from my reminiscing and calculating.

Hmm. . .

Sleep deprived Raphael vs. decaffeinated Donatello.

Perhaps I could manage to out-stubborn my brother, extract answers from him with enough nagging. In our current states I had a high chance at succeeding. I was one to rival with in the early hours.

Raph sank into the chair opposite to me, catching my scrutiny and deflecting it with a baleful scowl of his own.

_Or maybe not. . ._

Moments later, Leonardo entered the kitchen with a Zen look on his face and not a trace of fatigue lingering around him. How he managed that, I'll never know.

"Morning Mike. Morning Don." Leo greeted, taking his own seat at the table with a long stretch. His grayish brown eyes turned to the sai wielder, "Raph," he tilted his head in a cold gesture.

_Leo's still ticked. . ._

"_Leo,_" Raphael grunted, enough venom lacing the name to make me cringe.

_And Raph is equally as pissed... wonder what their fight was about this time?_

Stupid question. I already knew.

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut. And judging from the glares shared between Raph and Leo, the possibility of a katana being the tension-cutter wasn't all too unlikely.

Mikey shifted, head tilting back to look at us; smile hanging at an awkward angle now.

"Picking up a new habit?" Leo raised an eye ridge at the half empty coffee cup on the table, a bit of biting smugness seeping into his voice.

"Ya tryin' to start somethin', _bro_?"

"Only curious, _little_ _brother_."

Raph shoved his chair out with such energy it toppled, leaving him standing in front of it in an opprobrious stance.

I jumped at the sound, light brown eyes unwillingly focusing on the hothead, then the leader. I sunk behind my mug again, wanting to ignore them, yet afraid I'd have to intervene. Mike was doing the same, waiting for a cue from me to step in. A cue I didn't yield.

Raph's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles a greenish white as he breathed in, eyes dead set on Leonardo.

The eldest regarded him with an innocent glance, leaning forwards after barely a second to pour himself a cup of tea.

"Ya arrogant little—"

"I'm sorry," Leo brandished a placate hand, his tea sloshed as he set it down. "_I'm_ arrogant? Who almost got us all killed because _he_ was too arrogant to follow a simple order?" his eyes narrowed. I found the calmness in his voice frightening.

_Oh, not again. . ._

"First off, if I _had_ followed yer precious orders Donnie would be dead right now." his thumb jerks towards me.

Awkwardly, I made a soft sound in the back of my throat, taking a long drink.

"Don't try to justify your actions, Raphael, you put us all in danger, _again,_ because you _can't_ control your temper."

Raph growled in response, ready to defend himself, but the blue-clad ninja rushed on.

"You saw Hun coming and decided to take a glory run."

"What did ya want me to do, Fearless?" he took a step back, palm coming up in a ire filled shrug. "Let 'im crush Don? Yeah, I'm sure you'd be reeeaaal grateful fer that one. Probably be beatin' yerself up right now. Or blamin' me, seein' how everything _you_ do wrong is my fault."

Leo jumped to his feet, anger smoldering his stoic mask, "I gave you a direct order! You nearly brought the whole warehouse down trying to play the hero. You never think anything through, Raph!"

With an exasperated sigh, I rubbed my eyes with two olive green fingers, I was thoroughly through listening to my idiotic siblings fight.

Raph and Leo had been at each other's throats for the past two weeks. After awhile Mikey and I both decided we'd just allow the two to duke it out and not interrupt their quarrels. Now, however, the two could use a detraction. Desperately.

I peeked out from behind my fingers, leveling Mikey with a pointed glance. _Way too early for this._

The jokester winked, opening his mouth to harness his talent.

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

Black smoke appeared in a cloud around his head; a high pitch beeping assaulted my ears and I jumped, spilling coffee on the tabletop. _Ugh, Great._

The arguing was silenced immediately.

With an childish whine, Mike removed his chef's hat and placed it over his heart, sniffling despite the smoke still lingering around his face. The bacon was now burnt to a charred crisp, crumbling into dust as he rocked the pan. With an injured air the youngest turned the stove off, releasing another low whine at the demise of his fatty food.

"What the shell, Mike? " Raph barked above the beeping, tension melting slightly with the distraction."Thought ya said ya knew how to cook."

Mikey discarded the pan and faced us, chin lifting with snippy pride, "Can cook better than you culinary rejects."

Raphael snorted tightly and Leo rolled his eyes, arms crossed over his chest.

Seeing that none of my siblings were concerned with the noise the smoke alarm was emitting, I got up and gifted the smoke detector with a solid crack with my trusty bo.

"Right, Mikey," I said, rolling my own eyes with a devious version of my usual gentle smile, "and just how many times, per se, have you broke the toaster, or the microwave—"

"—Or the blender," Raph offered gruffly, picking up his over turned chair.

"Or the oven," Leonardo grinned.

"—while trying to perfect one of your 'creations', oh culinary master?" lazily I recaptured my place at the table.

Mikey looked to be barely repressing his smile. He recoiled with a hand over his heart, as if our words were a physical slap in the face. Dutifully, his mouth curved down, "Fine then," he sniveled, dropping his arm. "if that's how you all feel, then I'll turn in my apron for good. I'm sure Leo will make a _great_ replacement."

Raph chuckled, "Yeah, the only turtle in the world who can burn water."

"You aren't much better," Leo countered, "remember the last time you had to cook?"

"Uck, don't remind me! I was sick for like, a whole week." Mikey chirped, grimacing at the memory, then laughing.

"Can it, laughin'-boy, we've all been sick more than a few times, thanks ta you."

"Tell me about it, Raph, the last time Mikey decided to 'experiment', I downed an entire container of antacid neutralizing the results."

"Yeah, well, sacrifices must be made, Donnie-boy."

I flashed Mike an approving grin, causing him to break out into a face splitting smile.

For the moment, Raphael and Leonardo weren't seconds away from killing each other, the tension was broken—kinda—all thanks to the comic genius known as Michaelangelo, some burnt bacon and one serendipitous smoke detector.

_Leave it to Mikey. . ._

~*~**Time: 5:47 pm** ~*~

In all honesty, I could not fathom how Raphael and Leonardo were still standing; _fighting_ no less. I credited my younger brother endurance to sear stubbornness, while Leo had to be his determination to not let his younger—and clearly sleep deprived—brother get the best of him.

Training had been grueling, as soon as breakfast was complete we gathered in the dojo for Sensei to teach, that was some eight odious hours ago. Stretching, warm up, katas, a blessed lunch, weight training, and finally meditation went by before Splinter excused himself to his private chamber, instructing us to spar.

That was almost an hour ago.

I had tackled my only older brother first, somehow managing to last a whole ten minutes with the blue banded turtle before being defeated. Meanwhile, Raph and Mikey were pinned against each other, their fight lasting a bit longer, but ending with the red-masked turtle grinning down at Mike in victory.

Then came the real matches.

Mikey and I were closely matched, and the battle took awhile. But eventually, Michaelangelo had managed to get behind me and swiped my bo when I turned to knock the orange-clad jokester away, effectively ending the fight. I blame my loss on fatigue, rightly so, considering I had spent a large part of the night tinkering in my lab. Plus I just _really_ hated Mondays—training went from eight to six on those evil days.

I congratulated my brother all the same.

With a little coaxing from Mikey, I followed his lead and sat back to watch bladed weapons clash. After just a few minutes, however, it became rather apparent that this fight was less of a friendly sparring match and more of a dead locked battle between mortal enemies.

_I foretell an injury in the immediate future..._

I thought as Leo took a swipe with his katana, just missing Raph's collar bone.

Leo danced back from Raphael's sai, then countered with his own blade. Steel sparked as they slashed against each other. Red shoved against Blue, sending both stumbling backwards, exhaustion barely hindering their performance—both handled and disguised it well, they were ninjas after all.

Leo flipped back, landing expertly in a low crouch. Raph lowered his own body to mock his opponent's, an angry grimace shadowing his features and a long breath raping the silence.

"What's the matter, Raphael? Tired?" Blue taunted, attacked.

_Leo's antagonizing Raph? Really? The probability of this ending in another fight. . ._

"Not too tired to kick yer sorry shell." he grunted, blocking, attacking.

_Rationally speaking, its an inevitable outcome._

I rolled my eyes.

"Really?" Leo knocked him back, grinning, "You know, you might actually have a chance at winning if you got home at a decent hour, instead of, you know, _playing_ _vigilante_ _all_ _night_." his voice strained against the sudden weight of the younger ninja as he attacked full on. Every move was countered and every counter blocked.

"I don't need sleep to kick yer shell, blueboy." he feinted, gaining enough of a reaction from Leo to secure a kick to his side. The eldest grunted. Raph jumped back, spinning his sais into a defensive stance. He smirked, "Shell, I could probably beat ya _in_ my sleep."

Blue circled, Red followed.

Leonardo's face took on that all-knowing air, his lips lifting into a pompous, taunting grin that he had just recently adopted and worn during his fights—both verbal and physical—with Raphael.

He shifted his katanas, tightening the tense circle the two were still walking, drawing the fighters closer to one another. He tipped his head, "I actually agree with you."

Amber eyes narrowed.

"You probably _are_ a better fighter in your sleep."

With that insult in the air, the younger ninja lunged, locking weapons with the leader in a symphony of hot sparks and grating steel.

"I mean, think about it," Leo continued, voice constricted as he tried to free his swords from the prison of Raph's sais, "if your judgment wasn't so clouded by your emotions, you could focus more." Raph pushed harder, bending Leo's back knee with his mass, "If you could focus, you could think things through, you could predict your opponent's moves."

From my angle I could see Raphael's eyes were a lit with a brazen fire, his mouth pressed into a firm grimace. The firm line broke as he opened his mouth to retaliate, but whatever he was going to say was never spoken.

His reply was cut off as Leo lunched back, knocking the hothead off balance, plastron keeling into Leonardo's raised foot. Rolling back on his shell in a swift motion, the blue-banded turtle sent his opponent flying back.

Raphael landed, shell first, a few feet away.

Swords in hand, Leonardo sprung to his feet in true ninja fashion, craning to face our younger brother and end this long battle.

Raph growled and rolled away, coming to his feet a bit unsteady, before shaking away any physical hindrance and readying himself once more. No sooner than the hothead had taken his stance had the leader reengage.

I glanced at Mikey, whose large, brown-blue eyes were darting between the fighters with avid nervousness.

I refocused on the battle, analyzing the fighters' emotions. Raph seemed genuinely ticked off, any other emotions he had feinting through him was buried behind that all too familiar cloak. While Leo... well, I couldn't really read him, ever. He was always serious; always wearing a stoic facade. But I knew by Leo's mannerism what exactly was fueling this ever rare fierceness in him.

He was trying to teach Raph a lesson.

The attempt had been made many times before, in many different ways. Long winded lectures were the usual route, but seeing how that hadn't worked... the eldest was using a new, more Raph-like approach.

I could point out many problems with using this technique; number one being the fact that dangerous weapons and sharp words should never be paired when it came to Raphael. And number two, Leonardo was a master at keeping his feelings at bay, but even he lost it at times when it came to our hotheaded sibling, especially when it came to physical combat; and at those times, more likely than not, the practice of thinking before speaking left him.

Still, I could understand why Leo was attempting this new technique ; especially with how incisively difficult even _living_ with Raph have been lately. You couldn't even talk to him without being yelled at or treated to him shoving past you and completely ignoring you for the rest of the day. Leo got the worse of it, seeing that Raphael didn't mind cussing at him when things got too h—

Glistening metal snapped me from my musing. A high pitched scream bombarded my left ear drum and Michaelangelo yanked me down just in time to avoid being skewered alive by a pair of sais.

In my shock I stared at them for a moment, where they stuck into the solid brick wall, now cracked from the blow. The red hilts glared angrily at me, a sole katana hanging precariously between the prongs as if they were the teeth of a predator latched onto it unfortunate prey.

"Dude, maybe I should, like, get Master Splinter out here," Mike squeaked, rolling off my plastron with a huff, "they look like they're ready to kill each other!"

I observed the fight once more from my place on the floor.

Leo's other sword was on the completely other side of the dojo. And its owner was currently locked in hand-to-hand combat with a furious Raphael.

The desire to approve my youngest brother's idea was immense, but ever since our early teenage years, our father had decided we needed to learn how to settle things for ourselves, without his super-guidance. "Let them work it out, Mikey."

"But Donnie—" I muzzled him with a single look; stood up.

Neither of my brothers appeared too keen on losing the fight, weapons or no weapons. Kicks and punches flew, either being blocked or dodged by the target, very few managed to hit.

Raphael growled in irritation; while Leo gritted his teeth in concentration.

Blue dodged a low kick and danced away with an irritating grace toward his katana. Red wasn't having it. He lunged toward our brother once more, fist pitching directly at Leo's head. But the move was clearly predicted, and with a swift sideway movement the blow was averted. The lighter hand gripped the exposed emerald wrist like a viper; elbow snapping full force into the unprotected side; foot sliding in-between a wide stance, tripping him.

A harsh grunt and Raph went down, Leo on top with his suddenly reclaimed katana in hand and dangerously close to an emerald neck.

Hoarse panting played with the air; two chests heaving to suck in much needed oxygen.

And I was frozen.

"Bad move, Raph; If I was an enemy you'd be dead right now."

With a menacing growl the defeated shoved the victor off. Both stood, tense, ready; hands twitching with unfinished punches and dripping sweat.

"I get it, Leo, actions have consequences." he drew a rich breath, "But guess what, _Fearless,_ everything turned out fine!"

"Fine? How the shell do you figure that?" Leo snapped, throwing his hands out in true, exasperated-Leo fashion, blade flashing in the light, "We almost didn't make it out of that warehouse! _You almost blew all of us up!_ And you—you—_you_ nearly _**drowned**_! Do you not _get_ that?!"

"We're alive!" he shouted back, fists clenching.

"The ends don't justify the means, Raph." he growled, coming closer, eyes darker than I've ever seen them. "You can't just think everything you did is _'fine'_ because no one _died._"

An emerald head tipped, teeth showing in an angry grimace, "And ya gotta quit bein' so narrow-minded, there are other ways to do things than just how the _mighty_ _Leonardo_ wants them done." he spat.

"You don't listen to a single order I give, and I'm narrow-minded!?" he scoffed indignantly, "If you get an idea in that thick head of yours, you _won't_ listen to anyone else. Its like you don't care if anyone gets hurt just because you're too much of a hothead to even acknowledge the possible repercussions!"

"Right, I just don't care." Mockery and rage shadowed golden eyes, sweat prickled a body trembling with poorly suppressed ire, "That's why I risk my shell makin' sure one of _your_ plans"—he jabbed Leo in the chest—"don't get one of _them_ killed." his quivering hand waved toward us.

And I suddenly felt exposed. Exposed and very guilty.

"I'm done playing this game, Raph."

"And I'm sick of ya actin' like you're better than everyone else." he grounded out, "C'mon admit it, ya think yer so much better than me, don't ya, Fearless?"

"Get off it, Ra—"

"Mr. Perfect 's always right, huh?"

"I never said I was perfect!" Leo erupted.

"Right, that's why ya walk around here with yer nose turned up to everyone. 'Cause no one's ev'a good enough fer ya!"

"This isn't about me! This is about you and your inability to follow a command. About you practically getting us killed every time we find ourselves in a battle!"

"Why don't ya quit dancin' around, _bro_. If ya got somethin' yer tryin' to say, just _say_ _**it**._"

With that last word uttered, the ever calm Leonardo, snapped.

"You bet your shell I do! And do you know why? Because you don't get it. You _never get it!_ You—You're the most hot-tempered, rude, impatient, damn arrogant, _irresponsible_," he checked off, "impulsive, violent, _dangerous—_I mean," he sputtered a sadistic laugh, "forget battles, _you've_ nearly _killed_ all of us at one time or another for whatever damn reason!"

Raphael was clearly not expecting that response. He flinched back as if those words held some kind of physical force behind them, breath cutting short with a sharp sound that silenced all others in the room; his shoulders hitched and eyes dropped to the floor in what could only be cold shock; flaring anger dying out like a candle being dropped in water. The weariness he had shoved away in entering the dojo, abruptly returned, bringing with it a new and unwarranted aura that had never hung on the red-masked turtle before.

I, myself, was baffled. Jaw slack as Leo continued, obviously beyond the point of smoldering his frustrations, no matter the effects on the younger ninja.

~*~**Time: 5:53 pm** ~*~ POV: Raphael

Leo sure knows how to piss a guy off. Shell, I can't even count the number of times he's made it really hard _not_ _to_ _kill_ _him_. This, is one of those times.

Self-righteous bastard taunting me the whole time we're sparring; then jumps straight into lecture mode before I can even catch my breath. Almost makes me glad I don't have my sais.

Might do something I'd seriously regret.

I can hear my thundering pulse in my ears; feel the coil of muscles just waiting to be released. I've had more than enough of this crap. "Why don't ya quit dancin' around, _bro_." I snarl, "If ya got somethin' yer tryin' to say, just _say_ **_it_."**

Something in Leo's stance snaps with those words.

"You bet your shell I do! And do you know why? Because you don't get it. You _never get it_! You—You're the most hot-tempered, rude, impatient, damn arrogant, _irresponsible_, impulsive, violent, _dangerous—_" the though goes unfinished._ "_I mean,"—a sadistic laugh—"forget battles, _you've_ nearly _killed_ all of us at one time or another for whatever damn reason!"

The words are like a physical blow. All at once my throat constricts, air reluctant to fill my lungs. A sudden weight strikes my shoulders; my eyes fall after the jarring impact. Ice runs through my blood, extinguishing the blaze of anger which, moments ago, roared beyond my control. The red haze of color is leeched from my vision like trash swept from a sidewalk.

"I'm done with you! I'm done with your temper; done trying to work with you; done arguing with you! What the _hell_ is the point, anyways?!" my eyes snap back up, mouth working to form a response that is never spoken, "You obviously hate us too much to give a damn; and you know what, that's fine, hate us, hate me, hate the whole freaking world for all I care!"

Leo never swore.

I edge back, hands aching for something solid to cling to. I can feel my composure fracturing; the beaten down emotions clawing their way up.

I need to get away.

"You can go ahead, Raph," Leo jeers, voice tight and heavy in the new silence, "if you're so hell bent on getting yourself killed, go ahead, you have my full permission. Go! Just don't drag my family into it."

I stumble back, uncooperative jaw forcing words out at last, _"Your_ family?" disbelieving outrage, for a moment it overrides all else.

"Yes, Raph, _my_ family. The people _I_ care about;" he gestures to himself with aching contempt, "who _I_ need to protect." another slap and I look away.

I can hear what is left unspoken, saw it in Leo's eyes: _from you._

And just like that, the precious facade fell, shattering on the ground like fragile shards of ice before I can catch it; the missing symphony of anguished splintering somehow making every moment of silence worse.

How could I let this happen?

I stand in paralyzing shock, just staring at the cracks in the ground for some sort of answer to vindicate or mock my utter disbelief. Shame washes over me; guilt for all that I've done.

_You endanger them. . ._

Bunglingly, I move, head shaking hard as I stagger back once more. I lift my eyes to Leo's, fighting hard to stomp down the disabling emotions so I can communicate.

Leonardo's face tears a little, anger breaking by a softened corner of his down turned mouth. I swear, he'd break. He'd forget _everything,_ apologize, talk for hours explaining. If I just say 'I'm sorry. You're right.' That's all.

Yet I can't get my throat to work. I can't say that because it means admitting to me and my family all of my greatest fears. It means letting them in. And I can't do that. _Won't_ do that.

"I don't hate ya." The words fall slowly, almost lost in the stale air. But I don't think I can speak louder without the need to scream overwhelming me.

I guess Leonardo never did know me. If he did, he would understand everything those four words mean. I can't even blame him. This is all my fault.

_Yes. Yes, it is. . ._

Leo's features jerk back to white anger. His next words are swift, unforgiving and all it takes to completely shatter my composure—like stomping on already broken glass. "_Then act like it_."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out; I repeat the process, throat working to banish the growing lump there. On my third try, a strangled sob like growl crawls its traitorous way out.

Angrily, I jerk my head from side to side. Moving again, away from Leo, away from this mess. Towards Don and Mike; towards my weapons.

I need to get out of here.

My brothers flinch at my approach, Mikey taking a death hold on Don's arm. His eyes are wide with something I can't name. Don't want to name.

I falter, a melancholy grimace jostling control over my face and lingering there, unchallenged, as I back away.

_They're afraid of you. . . Oh, Raphie-boy, I tried to warn ya._

Donatello sputters, hands reaching out in a peaceful, almost apologetic manner. "Raph, I. . . I—"

Keenly, I twist on my heels, creating a kind of shield with my battle scarred shell. I spare a glance at my genius brother, waving my hand to ward him off.

_Forget your weapons, just run!_

Without a second look, I make a break for the doors.

"Raphael," an ancient voice cracks.

Beyond any realm of my understanding, I halt like a submissive dog, yet do not dare turn. I remain glaring at the door, hands alternately between fists and shaking palms as I desperately try to regain my control.

_Run, run, Raphie gotta run. . .  
_Shut up.

From the corner of my eye I catch Leonardo turning to meet Master Splinter, his lips maimed with an angry glower. The cracks of Splinter's walking stick on the lair floor as he moves towards me wounds my shoulders tighter. I fist my trembling palms.

"Raphael. . ." he says again, softer this time.

I throw an anguished look over a shoulder, silencing the words on the old rat's tongue. _Just let me go. Just let me go. Please._

Splinter falters under my gaze, stepping back once before checking himself. Gnarled, gray hands grip his walking stick firmly, and I suddenly remember a time when I was much smaller. A time when I was living under the disillusion that he could fix everything. When I was not ashamed to bury my head in his brown robe, or let him comfort me.

Something I want very much to do right now.

His black eyes tear from mine, falling to my hands. I can feel the calloused skin breaking with my pressure.

_Not a kid anymore._

"Calm yourself, my son."

An odd, tortured half whine, half snarl echoes through the lair. It takes me a moment to realize it came from me.

Still with my back to my family in a last ditch effort to save what little pride I have left, I shake my head again. Hard. The familiar acidly touch of anger bubbles up, slowly batting the other emotions aways. This is not happening. I have no control.

_Ya never had control._

"No—Sensei, I can't—just let me—I need to—I—" I hide my face in a quaking hand, rubbing roughly in a pathetic attempt to reclaim my wreaked composure. Out of sear frustration I strike the nearest wall, tearing the skin of my knuckles over the abrasive brick. The pain does nothing to calm me.

"I understand, Raphael." gravel falls from a thick tongue, adding to the intense, awkward weight in the room.

_No, you don't. . ._

My hands flinch to my belt for weapons that aren't there. The need for something strong and deadly makes my fingers go numb.

Without warning Michaelangelo moves forward, his presence is not wanted, nor is Donatello's. Yet I can feel them, staring at me. Judging. Too close.

_Dangerous. . ._

Air hits the back of my neck and I growl like a cornered animal. The sound scrapes through my throat and halt the youngest in his tracks. Uncertainty radiates off his suspended hand.

I taste copper.

"Raphie. . ." he pleads.

Impetuously, my fist connects with the wall again, "'M sorry, Mike. I just—" I lean my weight against the stone, arm extended against the surface and fighting to keep the rest of my body from just collapsing into the solid structure.

_Damn, so tired._

I tilt to look at my family, eyes wavering; snaking from face to face before pausing on Leonardo's.

Anger. Disgust. No regrets. Hate and vile, cold and glazing over his eyes so completely, so deeply, so _painfully_.

And I run.

I just run.

* * *

**A/N: Wow, poor Raphie. But what can I say? Ah, forget what I have to say (I'm boring and I tend to ramble), what do you have to say? Anyone too OOC in this chapter? Is the dialogue true to each Turtle? Did I reach my goal? More importantly, did you liiiike?  
**

**I really hope you did! Your wonderful reviews are a true motivation and something I'd like to read more of (up to you, of course.) And since y'all are such a motivation to me, let me motivate you! (If this is even an enticing proposition...) If you take a moment of your time to rant, rave or even critique the smallest of errors in the most brutal of ways, I'll PM you the name of the next chapter! *Shrugs* I don't know about y'all, but I love leafing through a new book and reading the chapters' names before _anything_ else. Ha ha, that could just be because I'm a bit weird.  
**

**So, if you're weird too, or just curious - okay, okay. Shutting up now, because I'm sure you get it. Enough of my rambling! ;)  
**

**BTW: I know some of you believe Raphael is older than Donatello, but one of the creators of TMNT even said that Raph is the second youngest. Thus, he is, for this fic at least!  
**

**P.S.: What does IMO stand for? (I'm not good with texting lingo)  
**


	3. C3:P1: In Thy Land Shall Lay Thy Grave

**Disclaimer: *wistful sigh* A girl can dream, right?  
**

**An Author's Appreciation: I love y'all! Whether you reviewed, followed, favorited, or just enjoyed in utter silence, I'd like to thank you. I never realized how much just hearing a little bit of feedback could help, could inspire. It truly is a blessing to read what y'all have to say :)**

**A/N: Alright-y, let's see if I can keep this short. *Cringes* bad news first: This is only part one. I just couldn't post the whole thing. I mean, it's a freaking 35 page monster! So I decided to split it into two parts. This part is not nearly as bloody as the second. . . this is more of a flashback, set up, super angsty chappie. In hindsight, I should have just broke this into two chapters, but by the time I thought to do that *smack head* I had already stamped the title as is. Oh well.**

**Beware, gentle readers, for we descend into the mind of Leonardo for the first time, aw the adventure. You might be excited, but all I have to say is darn you Leo! So difficult to write for. Please tell me how I did!  
**

**Also there is a flashback in this chapter that y'all might not completely agree with, though I do hope you like. One night I was struck with a rather intriguing idea: what if Raphael wasn't always the biggest, bravest, baddest brother? I couldn't help playing around with it and then falling in love with it. (Again! Ugh, love is such a blinding thing). So I wrote it and hopefully connected it well to how Raphael is now. Honestly, I think it works great in explaining why Raphie doesn't like to talk about his feelings or show weakness. But I'll let you decide.****  
**

**Before this thing gets any longer, here is Chapter 3 (part one): In Thy Land Shall Lay Thy Grave.  
**

_Word count: 5767_

_Exercise Goal: Kinda went out the window on this one. . . *sheepish grin*  
_

* * *

_**Chapter three**_

_**In Thy Land Shall Lay Thy Grave**_

**Date: February 3; Time: 6:31**** . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . POV: Raphael**

The white snow which had cloaked the city in false innocence the night before, had succumbed to the monstrous afternoon sun with heartbreaking quickness. Shimmering slush decorating ledges and water pooled in uneven valleys of every roof top is the only lingering evidence that the winter wonderland had even existed.

Blaring noises and threatening lights play through the dark city as the day winds down and the night come alive with sweating bodies of youth and over taxed workers.

So many people around to catch a shadow darting across roofs in a mad haste to escape an unseen foe. I can't even bring myself to care.

The sun had set over an hour ago and taken its dangerous rays with it; leaving the sky dark with a cloud smuggled young moon and more than enough shadows for me to cling to.

My breaths are heavy and lined with ice, every inhale sounds like shattered glass being sucked into a vacuum. It hurts just as bad, the shards scraping my throat raw. Hot blood thrum behind my temple, nails driving into my brain with every passing seconds. I can feel the distant burn of salt in my eyes. Even now I won't allow myself that weakness.

Just gotta keep running.

_Yeah, cause that's what ya do best, huh?_

As long as my body doesn't give out, my mind is safe. Just gotta keep moving.

I leap across a too wide gap, feet barely catching purchase on the slippery ledge and legs seconds away from buckling under my unbalanced weight. I teeter forward, hands finding rimy stone that cut deeply into my flesh. I wince. My erratic rhythm fumbles with me, breaking my torpid concentration with vicious words spoken not too long ago.

_You can't control yourself. You endanger them. . . _**you've**_** nearly **_**killed**_** all of us...**_

I straighten, panting hard. Everything is blurry, swaying in my vision. A small part of me warns of taking another jump. I run anyways, just to block out the noisy thoughts that parallel so closely with each other. Too closely... A grim smile tear at my mouth, the realization twisting inside me with all the bite of a hot knife. I was right.

Shell was I ever right!

Every thought that plagued me for two long weeks is completely true and now stamped with authenticity by my own brother.

_**I'm done with you! I'm done with your temper; done try—**_

The wind whip at my mask with icy needles and enticing cruelty. The sharp smack of fabric against skin and ears creating another blessed distraction.

Yet it isn't enough...

_Can't run forever, Raphie-boy._

And I know that's the truth.

**~*~ Time: 10:21 ~*~ POV: Leonardo**

Swirling clouds of incense raise in the darkened air, reflecting rays of orange from a quickly diminishing candle. The wax sinks lower, and I wonder how long I've been sitting here, just staring at the flickering flame. Hours. Hours of doing absolutely nothing. It had to be.

I slump forward, dropping my head into strangely sweaty palms. A headache throbs above my right eye, unshed tears pulse below both. I removed my mask long ago, tossing it onto a sandalwood picture frame that sits on my nightstand, without it I feel vulnerable. The blue cloth mocks me when I lift my eyes, what peeks out from behind it set my teeth on edge.

Beyond my door, I note, is silence, a sure sign that everyone else has gone to bed; a place I very much wish to be at the moment. A place I wish Raph was; at home; in bed; asleep; safe.

I shove myself off the tatami mat; the motion blows the piddly light from the room and leaves me standing in the dark. Worry drops like liquid lead into my gut; fear creeps its icy way into my throat.

Raphael is going to run into trouble, just like he _always_ does. He'll probably go looking for it—

With a shake of my head, I cross the room to the tumbled mess of blankets covering my bed. It shouldn't be so untidy, especially considering the negligible amount of time I've spent in it. Every nerve in my body feels fried, _exhausted._ Just completely drained from these past weeks.

Thanks, in large part, to Raphael.

The little brother who keep me up, pacing the lair every night; who takes center stage in my nightmares; who plants worry deep inside me; who doesn't give a damn about what I have to say; who doesn't care if he gets himself killed.

The little brother I just blew up at.

I sink onto the bed with a long suppressed sigh and knot steely fingers into the blue covers. Sleep, I need some sleep. I need to quit thinking about him. Just for a few hours. With that in mind, I tug the beckoning blanket up, wrapping it around me in folds of false security. Selfishly, I descend deeper into the fabric, turning on my side so my shell face the nightstand and its lone occupant.

In the morning I'll talk to Raph, pull him aside and explain why I said what I did. I won't apologize for my motives or for finally breaking that accursed mask he wears; for sparking a much needed reaction...

As long as he finally sees what I so desperately want—no, _need_ him to understand, then this whole long night—and so many nights before—won't be a waste.

_You aren't invincible, little brother. . . and just because you don't care if you get yourself killed, doesn't mean this family feels the same way. A loss that big would destroy us._

That's what I had meant to say; what I _should_ have said; what I'll explain come sunrise. It's what I sputtered off in a delirious craze of anger and guilt to Sensei hours ago. What I couldn't explain to a furious Michaelangelo or scary calm Donnie.

I shut my heavy eyes.

_You may not realize it, but I'm just trying to protect you..._

**~*~ Time: 10:24 ~*~POV: Raphael  
**

The slums of north east Brooklyn, New York.

I know this place like the back of my hand, can run these rooftops blindfolded and make every gap between every building without missing a beat. In many ways, this is my second home.

This crummy, filth strewn hellhole is a mere thirty minute walk from where my brothers and I grew up. Beneath the beaten crime ridden streets lay the tunnel to our _first_ home. A piece of life I've never been able to fully let go. This is where it all began. Maybe not where we fell in the sewers and mutated, but this is where Splinter brought us, where he raised us.

My life, my accent, my mistakes. . . it all started beneath these slums.

Figures my subconscious would lead me here.

I slow to a stop on an old, two stories brownstone building. Mechanically scanning the streets below, over to a rancid alleyway until a sewer lid shows it rusty surface. I don't bother trying to suppress the gentle, uncharacteristic smile that overtakes my lips.

At the ripe age of seven, I had managed to summon enough courage to ascend a rusted ladder and emerge in the upper world for the first time and do so entirely _alone_. The smells in that alley was worse than any part of the sewer I'd been in, and _that_ was saying something.

Nonetheless, I was in utter awe.

I drank in every detail. The stained walls and trash layered ground, the dumpster and accompanying flat tire that laid by it side. Still there, too.

The smoggy clouds swayed over a full moon on that covert night, a few stars managing to shine through just for me. Or, at least that's what I thought.

Back then I was an overemotional kid. The most prone to bursting into tears among my brothers; the easiest to scare; the first one to run to Splinter.

Even compared to Mikey. . .

I feel sick. My body's shaking like a leaf, erratic breaths tearing through my throat like shards of glass, and worse, the content of my stomach keep making several, brutish attempts to escape. Yet I'm _still_ able to face palm at the memory.

I take a deep breath and continue on my blind journey, reminiscing on memories if only to punish myself. . .

Even as a little kid I didn't think I belonged in the world. Any part of it. I knew the terrors of the upper levels by Splinter's constant warnings and stories, and I knew it well. But that hideous truth was just that, stories, things I'd been taught. So I didn't think much of it. My problem was the place I held in my family. Even beyond the realm of being a 'freak', a _mutant_ among the humans; this was being a freak to my own brothers.

I was a total outcast in my younger years and damn well knew it.

Believe it or not, I was a pretty quiet child, more than Don's ever been. I rarely talked, almost never gave my opinion or ideas in conversations—fact is, I stuttered worse than a scared kid facing the boogie man for the first time. Knew it all too well.

Emotions swept over me in exhilarating highs or depressing lows, never regular or in control, but they always landed me in hot water. The fathomless nerves I openly displayed when spoken to were laughable. Somehow I owned the title of most adventurous and always got in some form of trouble for it. And then there was my uncanny sixth sense that have saved my shell more than a few times and always alert me to lingering eyes.

That was me.

In the blissful innocences of childhood, when silly games occupied an extraordinary chunk of our regular day's time, I was the most alienated, gained up on, or all together banished from play. Part of the reason, I knew, was due to my emotional, err, _tantrums_ that exploded from me when I was upset.

I guess seeing "little Raphie" blow up, usually in tears, was sadistically hilarious to my brothers back then.

I never found the humor in it.

Eventually I gave up on trying to fit in with my then larger-in-size siblings and conforming to their rules and ways, and decided, instead, to wander the mysterious sewers by myself. The first few times I disappeared, I was frightened to the point of returning to the lair in a mess of salty tears and dripping sewer water. (it had been very different when Leo tagged along.)

Good times. . .

Master Splinter had held his tongue on the lecture—I could get away with a lot when I wanted to, Mike had his freakish puppy dog eyes and I had all the awkwardness in the world to win Sensei over.

And I've always been one to push my luck—might be why it sucks so much now—so I trampled off again. And again, and again. Every time I ran back, too afraid to ever find what I was looking for.

I was stubborn, at least that much hasn't changed.

There was one day, I remember, when a game of "Dragons and Ninjas" went wrong. . . and I discovered something.

**~*~ Nine Years Ago ~*~ **

"B—b—but, I'm always the dr—dragon!" I dropped the pointed ears and tail on the ground in favor of crossing my arms.

"Yeah, so you should be the best at it then, Raphie. Right, Donnie?" Leo asked, swinging his cardboard sword at the turtle with an all-knowing air.

Don looked caught off guard and I set my golden eyes on him, hoping he'd take my side since Leo wasn't. For once.

"Well, you are the best at it." he offered shyly.

I frowned. Dragons and Ninjas was the dumbest game we ever invented. For one there was only _one_ dragon, so the title was retarded. And I was always it, while my brothers teamed up to defeat me before I could reach the lair entrance just two dozen feet away.

I looked at it now, wondering if I could reach it before they decided I didn't need the ears and tail to be their monster and slayed me. I already had the wings. . .

"Why can't I b—be a ninja?"

At this Mikey jumped up from his bored can-we-hurry-up-and-start-the-game-already! crouch and handed Leo his own cardboard sword. The blue-banded turtle mouth snapped shut before he could answer.

"Cause, Ninjas gotta be big and brave and quick and strong and not a-scared of nothin'."

I frowned deeper, fingers fidgeting with the corner of the falling wings on my shell.

"I'm b-brave and-and quick too!" I pulled the wings off and shoved them into Mike's hand. "And I w-wanna be a ninja."

Mikey pushed the wings back towards me, "Nuh-uh, we need a dragon, dude!"

I knocked the cardboard away wordlessly.

"_Leo,_ _Donnie"_ Mikey whined, "I wanna _play_! Make Raphie hurry up before we have to go in."

Both the older turtles looked to the door. "Mikey's right, Raphie, we don't have a lot of time. You can be a ninja next time if you want."

"See, Leo agrees with me. Now come on."

When he prompted the stupid costume at me again and I hit it back, the paper crumpled and we both fell back, shells striking sewer brick loudly.

My younger brother gasped before I could even sit up. "Raphie broke the wings!" he wailed, leveling me with a wounded scowl. "Now we can't ever play Dragons and Ninjas never ever again and its all your fault!"

I didn't have a chance to respond. Don spoke, "I can fix them, Mikey."

"Really?" he sniffled.

"Sure." Donnie took the crumpled plaything from him and gave it an analytic look, one hand on his chin as he carefully turned it over and over. Mike was just on his feet when Don's face fell. I stayed seated, arms crossed. "Or not. . ."

"What do you mean?" Leo asked, coming up beside me and good-naturally offering me a hand up. Which I stupidly accepted.

"It's too damaged. See? Its ripped here and the shape won't hold. I don't think we have enough tape to make the necessary repairs."

Silence fell, all eyes on me. "This is all your fault!" Mike cries again, pointing a chubby finger at me. There were disarming tears in his bright eyes. "See, this is why you can't be a ninja, you're always breaking things! And, and, and—"

Leo's hand clasping his shoulder cut him off. "Relax, Mikey."

"But Leeeeoooooo," way too wide blue eyes watered more, threatening to spill.

I backed away from my brothers, Don still preoccupied with the ruined toy and Leo with his shell to me.

"I'm sure Raph didn't mean to. Besides, Dragons and Ninjas was getting old anyways. We can play, um. . ." he thought a moment, then snapped his fingers together. "Sewer monster hunters, instead."

"And Raphie gets to be the monster." Mikey declared.

"B-but why!?"

His face lit up like it always did when he knew the answer, "Because you're the best monster we know!"

My face fell at that. Maybe Mike hadn't meant it how I took it, but all the same I turned and ran. Their voices faded soon enough.

After a solid hour of wandering the dank sewers and forcing myself not to turn and run back into the safety of my Father's arms, I'd heard it. Through the grimy grate that showed a setting sun came the voices of children. High pitched and bursting with laughter. I took a seat on an exposed sewer pipe and just listened. Fascinated.

I liked their accents. Their words not spoken in the perfect way Leo used; or the fake surfer accent Mike picked up off of hours of mindless TV; and definitely not the brainy way Donnie spoke with words I couldn't understand half the time. No, the ways these kids talked was real. Imperfect. Tough.

I wanted to be tough.

So I took in their words and repeated them quietly to myself, working away until the sun went down and the kids left for their homes. And I left for mine—with the full intention of returning as often as I could.

The look on Splinter's face when I stalked back into the warmth of my home was one of deep disappointment—a look directed at me more time than all of my brothers combined in my teenage years. A flicking tail distinctly broad casted the anger he felt towards my disobedience.

The three pairs of wide eyes that watched me crisply during Splinter's whole lecture were perhaps more discouraging than the actual words spoken. That alone sparked something foreign deep inside me. Unleashed an untameable monster. Something I couldn't control. . . still can't control.

So for the first real time, I lashed out with unprocessed, hot words.

Splinter balked, because, before that day I had never snapped with rage, never crumbled to anything more than tears. And now I was yelling. Yelling at my shell shocked brothers.

The only thing I _really_ noticed was the lucidity of my speech. In whole what had been said, I can't recall. Yet my last sentence, uttered in that lost little boy voice that I'm all too glad about _losing,_ still ring obstreperously in my ears even to this day. And might explain why Leo thinks I hate them. Because I said it, all those years ago, I said it.

"They hate me and I hate them!"

Mikey was the first to find his voice, claiming in the most truthful and indignant tone he could conjure up: "that's not true!"

That was when the tears came, hot and fast and all too familiar, tracing lines down my six years old cheeks once more. In an effort to save my pride, I stormed off, shutting myself in the bedroom I shared with my siblings and burying my face in a pillow.

In the end it had been Splinter who slid onto the bed next to me and rubbed my shell. The conversation was one sided and foreboding. First starting in comfort and reassurance that my brothers did not hate me, then ending on a stern warning—a quote I had never fully understood:

'Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before - it takes something from him.'

I was too young to understand. Too angry to care and try. Too blind to grasp the meaning behind those simple words.

The warning was ignored. The dark path of rage was traveled. Within two short years I learned to wield the anger as a shield; to dry the tears; to keep my pride by wearing that dangerous facade. The ember was fed until it became a roaring blaze. A blaze I used to conceal feelings too dangerous and weak and undeserving of rearing their ugly heads. Feelings I choked so carefully with the smoke of the fire until they were consumed.

Now I understand.

**~*~ Time: 12:31 ~*~ **

Now, standing on a deserted rooftop in the middle of the city; panting from the sheer exhaustion of running at top speed for an unknown amount of time; glaring at the stony ground as I use my shaking knees to brace myself; _now_ I finally understand.

I understand it and regret it.

I slump to the ground on bent knees and weak arms, chest heaving in the ice tinged air as I desperately work at calming myself down. I swallow, coughing hard on the acid taste coating my tongue.

After all these years. After all those fights. After all the self-loathing hell I put myself through. After screwing up my family's lives for so long.

_Now._ I. **Frigging**. Got It.

And now its too late to change anything.

" 'M such an idiot." I growl, slamming a numb fist into the water silken roof. Suddenly I laugh, hard and humorless, relishing the pain that erupts deep within me. It dies to a coughing fit. "Leo's right." I shiver with rough pants, head bowing low as I try to catch my breath. "Always gotta be freakin' right."

A part of me wishes I could go back and fix everything; stop myself from screwing up so badly, from becoming this monster. I shut my eyes tight, as if the action could somehow grant my wish.

Reality slaps me with practiced ease. There's no way to rewind and remove the wedge between myself and my family; no way to pull back the distance that had grown with time; no way to expel the hatred that now brew_._

And here I am, entirely incapable of fixing things. Like always.

Agonizingly slow, I sink back until my battle scarred shell hits my throbbing heels, arms still stretched, a shaky foundation that brace the front of my teetering body.

I can't help but think of how I must look now, crumpled on a cold rooftop, shaking. . . _screaming?_ Yes.

But I'm not crying. No, far too well trained for that display of fragility. No. The old noise now protruding from my raw throat is my tortured soul baring all. Hell born anguish vibrating out from every nerve and pulsing through my veins with more power than any poison ever bestowed upon me. A trail of fire is left in its wake, chasing the cold from my flesh like white hot iron pressed against delicate skin. My ears ring with ripples of mute screams; screams that echo loathing, self-destructive pain with deaf clarity.

It strip me of all my physical senses, leaving me with _nothing_ but a profound and searing consciousness of the turmoil which reside within the very depths of my being. The sound stretch out until the strings of my vocal cords finally, mercifully snap and my voice cut off with neck breaking abruptness. Seconds that seemed like eternity reduce me to a heap of silent gasps.

A vivid curse slip past my lips.

"I just wanted to protect 'em." I growl breathlessly, voice barely above a whisper and as rough as sandpaper.

I can't protect my brothers if I'm weak. Sure, I've always been an avid defender to them all, even when I was afraid, I'd place myself between them and danger. Countless times. Even when I was little and weak and quiet. But that wasn't enough. I needed to be strong, callous, unafraid of even the most nightmarish things. Like Mike had said, like I knew.

Like I _am._

A deep voice laughs and I realize my darker side is mocking me again.

_Yeah, ya did a bang up job there, pal. Pushed them away and made 'em hate yer guts._

"No," the word fall with no conviction.

_Yes! Raphael, the cold, cynical, loner, you failed. Yer own brothers think ya hate 'em and they hate ya riiiiight back. Ya saw their eyes. . . ya know its true._

I slam my fist into the concrete once more. These inner conversations are never fun. My darker side has too much against me, and there's so little in my defense. There's no desire to argue anymore.

_Face it, ya couldn't be a brother _and_ a protector. Ya lack the 'inner balance,' always have, always will. Ya know it and Leo knows it, told ya bluntly enough, didn't he?_

I bite my tongue. Eyes still closed as the most recent fight play behind my lids.

"And when have I ev'a cared what Leo thinks?" I snarl, pushing off my hands to rest solely on worn legs.

_Always._

Isn't that the truth.

_And ya never been good enough fer him. Oh no, not little Raphie. Ya always screw up in his eyes, you'll never reach Mr. Perfect's standards. . . and by every right, shouldn't._

Suddenly a chill races up my shell shielded spine, shattering my concentration as the warning bells blares in my mind. Awareness leak through me like a viper's poison, leaving my nerves screaming with spiking adrenaline.

The self-imposed darkness bursts to tense, wide-open eyes.

Something is wrong. Very, _very_ wrong.

Silhouetted against the midnight sky are pure black figures, taut and crouched and watching me with malicious intent.

For stupidity's sake, I laugh, the sound bitter and cutting in the frosty air. Shakily, I rise to my feet with a sharp smirk, eyes ablaze with something too deep to name and too chilling to challenge.

One of the dozen ninjas back slightly at my vicious display, sais posed in an amateurish manner. _Coward_.

I want to snarl. Howl like an animal and act on every instinct without any thought. My muscles coil with the need to rip into something, to tear and shred and _destroy._

This feeling only increases as I take in the Ninjas. At their absolute certainly that I'm finished, even the coward in the back radiates with smugness. Like his dozen buddies could take me down.

Shell, they've been trailing me all night; spying on me at my weakest, as I tore myself apart and spent the last ounces of energy in my wasted system. And I was too stupid and clouded to even notice. So much for that sixth sense.

I compose myself. _Perfect endin' to the perfect night. . . _Sarcasm never failed.

"And here I thought I wouldn't get the pleasure of scrapin' any scum off the pavement." I crack my knuckles, rolling impossibly heavy shoulders back to loosen the sore muscles, "Ya clowns just made my day."

A katana wielder steps forward, most likely the highest ranking of the group. "_Hibusō no,_" he hiss, smugness tinging his tone.

Instantly I recognize the Japanese word for _unarmed _and for half a second my heart stops cold in my chest, fingers flinching to my _empty_ belt, grazing leather instead of the coveted steel. I left my weapons buried in the dojo wall.

_Ya should just legally change yer name to moron now. . . scratch that, have 'em engrave it on yer headstone, instead._

Cussing mentally, I shift into a defensive stance. "Don't need no weapon to beat ya ninja wannabes."

Learning to fight without the aide of weapons is critical and was drilled into my brothers and I since we could walk. So defeating a dozen Foot shouldn't be a problem, shell, it _should_ be a cake walk. But if these ninjas are just the scouts. . . I'm screwed.

The coward equipped with sais shifts again, blade faintly flashing in the dim light and catching my blurry eyes. Not many Foot carry the three-pronged daggers, maybe one in ever thirty. So seeing a probable scout with the twins clutched in unskilled hands is both rare and exactly what I need.

Riding the wave of adrenaline, I launch over the sea of black with a single flip and land behind my target. Tactfully, I spin and laid an elbow into the masked face. The figure crumples like a marionette cut from his master's strings, the desired objects dropping from his wilted hands.

The prize grace my callous, emerald hands with rough, black twilled handles. Their weight is different, blades shorter, duller, easier to break. They'll have to do.

A katana cranes toward my neck, anemic metal halting the blade inches from ending my life. Scraping steel and ragged breaths infect the air.

Breaking swords is a specialty for me, something I mastered years ago and take great pride in. Now, however, the talent is failing me. My concentration is completely shot and I really don't have time to be weapon locked when there are about eleven other enemies posing to take me down.

_Screw this. . ._

A pommel to the temple settles the duel. A bo swings at my head. I duck, rolling up and granting its owner a broken jaw.

I leap above a sweeping kick; drive the sais into the assailant's back before he can straighten. An agonized screech shudders the rest to a stop.

Flashing a leer that could make grown men run, I rip the blades out and flick the dead man's dripping blood towards the frozen fleet. It spatters their uniforms.

"That all ya got?" I kick the body away.

The katana wielder barks. "Kogeki!"_ attack._

Like fools they do.

Defecting a sword, I veer minutely to the left and side kick an battle crying amateur in the chest. Strike the stunned swordsmen in the face.

Four more fall to artificial wounds, injuries they'll be unhindered by in a few days time. I have half a mind to finish them off.

Two remain. Their little leader and a shaky sickle holder. I go for him first, catching his arching weapon with ease. I jounce his arm down, it cracks over my knee. His cry is bitter sweet.

Panting, I lunge for the final foe; dodging clean strokes and confident jabs. I duck beneath another blow, barrel behind his back, and grab his neck.

The sound of vertebra snapping ends the fight. And I just stand there, struggling for air, for strength.

I know I need to run, to disappear beneath the nearest sewer lid before more Foot show up. Padded feet landing on the opposite side of the rooftop tells me I'm not getting out of this fight. I force my breath to calm, drop the dead weight, and readjust the straggled grip on the weapons.

With one more deep inhale, I turn to face my opponents.

The sea of black that greets me is one I know I'll drown in. Their numbers are too many to count, and more than I could defeat, even on my best day.

Today is far from my best day.

Gritting my teeth in anticipation, I fall into a battle stance. A quick glance behind my shoulder reveals more foes positioned to attack.

Well, isn't this just my luck.

**~*~ Time: 12:46 ~*~POV: Leonardo  
**

I yawn widely, fingers tapping the counter top as I wait for my tea to heat. Calming tea, the kind Master Splinter gave us when we were little and couldn't sleep. Or didn't want to sleep. It always worked to settle a restless mind, so why not now?

My mouth tastes of grimness—I can't imagine how it must look –as I remove the pot from the shove and pour its content into a porcelain cup. All I want is a decent night sleep. All I _need_ is a few beautiful hours. For sanity's sake.

I take a slow sip, eyes wandering to the lair's door.

If my little brother walked in, right now, what would I do?

The answer is unclear. In the past two hours, I've run through the conversation I'll have with Raphael over a dozen times. The first run down had gone surprisingly well, before I cut the crap and realized how nothing is easy when it comes to Raphael. The last internal heart to heart ended in a rather bitting way. If things turns out like _that_, its safe to say neither of us will ever speak to each other again.

I sigh, sinking into an oak wood chair. I can't fail this time. Every word needs to be carefully picked and aligned and _spoken_ wisely.

Less my worse nightmare comes true.

Closing my eyes, I can remember the days when Raph and I were the best of friends. Raph has always been the adventurous type, braving fears to answer questions he dared not ask. I often tagged along, half for the excitement and half for the sake of making sure my brother didn't get himself killed. We were close. Closer than any of the others.

Until the leadership role was introduced.

It was clear very early on that the leader would be one of us. We both had our weaknesses, but the qualities for a great leader were evident in both of us. Even back when Raph contended with Mikey for the most easily frightened little brother, he could always shove his discomforts away if it meant protecting one of us. That's the one thing that truly impressed me about him. Impressed Splinter about him.

The competition between us was friendly at first. Until I began to excel in my ninjitsu training, sinking deeper into my meditative, _self_-_righteous_ (as Raph puts it) ways; and Raphael—always on the outside of the group—distanced himself further; grew. . . jealous, I suppose. The final straw was the entrance of unadulterated rage—something that seemed to come out of nowhere.

An entrance I suppose I opened the door wide for.

Our tight knit friendship died before we were seven. And it seems like we've been bitter enemies ever since.

A noose constricts around my heart a little more, and I sit there, holding my breath until the worse of the guilt passes. Until I'm able to swallow back the sting of unshed tears and force the last of my strangely appalling tea down.

I've always liked tea, it shouldn't tastes so much like, like. . . like salt. Like failure and sickness and guilt and anger and everything else I've been suppressing for far too long.

Distantly, I realize that in my weakness, in the midst of a rare breakdown moment, I released some of these emotions on Raphael. And that he didn't deserve it quite as much as first thought. The word 'hate' should never have been thrown. The last look I gave him before he ran off shouldn't have held that vile monster so close to the surface. And its not even that I hold any ill will towards him, he's my little brother. I love him. But he's going to get himself killed one day. _That's_ what I hate.

_I should have gone after him._

With my heart in my throat, I tip the tea pot to peer inside. The liquid slosh against the brim, and I realize I made enough for two. What a waste.

_Come on, Raph. . . _The lair door taunts me with its stillness.

Icicles prickle beneath my skin and I shiver. But not from any cold. No. The shudder comes from something not so easily combated, something much deeper. Haunting. Hovering at the edge of my mind, out of reach but very much there.

I blink into the empty cup; at the mottled tea leaves speckling the bottom—as if they hold the answer I'm grappling for. And somehow, those little leaves slap me with a thought. A dread.

Something is wrong.

_Deathly_ _wrong._

* * *

**A/N: So a little bit angstier than I had first planned, but *shrugs* things will get better in part two.  
**

**So, did you like? Hate? Were any of the turtles too OOC in this one? (Besides when they were younger.) Better yet, how did I do on Leo? The guy was a pain to write for (and rewrite for, and rewrite for, and rewrite for...). UGH! Ha ha. Oh yeah, I don't know how good the flashback was, so be as harsh as y'all want. I welcome anything that can make me a better writer!  
**

**And don't worry, Mikey will be making an appearance very soon! (and yes, I do regard Mike as being the closest to Raphie - as you will see. But turtle tot Leo and Raph? Come on, the idea was just too cute to pass up...)  
**

**So questions? Comments? Ideas? Predictions? You know how to tell me, reviews! You are all such a huge inspiration to me, I feel like my new writing is getting better and the words are coming smoother. You are all incredible for that. Hope to hear from you again!  
**

**Cheers, your RedWritingRebel  
**

BTW: what do y'all think would be the best time of the week to update? oh, and, before I forget _again,_ don't y'all just hate the cover? I need new ideas! You have them? Tell me please! Really, cause it needs some help.**  
**


	4. C3:P2: In Thy Land Shall Lay Thy Grave

**Disclaimer: *Empty pockets* Let's see, gum, a dime, two pennies and. . . lint. Huh, guess not.**_  
_

**Appreciation: Its official, thank you not longer suffices. Y'all are incredible; can't even tell you how much I enjoy reading your reviews (all 22 of them, to this day! *squeal*). :D  
**

**ThisCatalyst'sPen made the absolutely _beautiful_ new covers you (and I) have the pleasure of gawking at now. So give her a hand - better yet, check out her amazing work!  
**

**A/N: I'm not going to say much, only offer a severe warning to you gentle readers, for bloody violence (and some language) lay ahead. And that I really hope its enjoyable and doesn't scare y'all off. Wow, a short note. Didn't think I had it in me. :/  
**

**Oh, and Raphael, I _do _apologize in advance.  
**

**Alright-y, here is Chapter Three: In thy Land Shall Lay Thy Grave (part two)  
**

_Word count: 5896_

_Exercise goal: Balance internal and external conflict.  
_

* * *

_**Chapter Three: Part Two**_

_**In Thy Land Shall Lay Thy Grave**_

**Date: February 4; Time: 1:09 AM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . POV: Raphael **

I bare my teeth as pain ripples through my limb and rip the shuriken from my afflicted bicep. Blood gushes from the wound, slithering down my arm and off numb fingers. So I'm not making it out of this battle unscathed; honestly, I'm surprised I'm not dead yet. Shocked that a throwing star was the first thing to draw blood so far.

I'm not fighting well, a sloppy mess in my own opinion. So I'm not still alive based on my expert skills. And these Foot are no amateurs either.

Conclusion? Either I've made such an impression on these clown that they think they need half their legion to bring me down; or these Foot lackeys are merely to wear me down so my inevitable defeat will look more pathetic.

And so far it's working.

The fatigue of being awake for some forty-eight hours is dragging on me. Even with the sweet charge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I feel the scream of protest from overused muscles. Hear my rough gasps above the clash of steel and cries from unlucky Foot troops. Every nerve in my body begs for my surrender, to drop my arms and end this.

But I am nothing if not stubborn.

So I fight on, rebelling to my new wound by returning the bloody shuriken to its owner's throat.

Only one sai, that's all I have left, the others I collected throughout this battle are either broken or embedded into a foe or wall. Not like it would make a difference.

Stickily, I lay an elbow into the gut of an opponent, flipping over a bo staff and messily kicking the wielder into a pile of his buddies.

I rush towards the mostly unguarded ledge with a burst of eagerness, striking any enemies down that cross me. I don't pause, leaping safely to the slick top and pushing all my energy into fleeing.

An arrow reels past me, embedding itself in the ground a scary three inches from my left calf. I cuss, redirecting myself to the right. Another building cleared. Another. The sea of black grows smaller, but it is only a matter of time before they catch up. I'm weak and out of air.

A brick wall beckons and I waste no time in ducking behind it. My shell hits the wall, crushing something into my hip and shooting a wave of pain up my injured arm. Wincing, I pull out the perpetrator, fully ready to toss it off the side of the roof. My shell cell stares back at me, beautiful and lifesaving and exactly what I need. Why hadn't I thought of it earlier?

_Such an idiot._

I squander three seconds berating myself before ripping the device open. Leonardo's name is the first one that lights up on the LED screen, and I pause. . . what am I doing?

_You endanger them. . ._

The possibility of even the whole team walking away from this fight entirely intact is low. Not with me being nothing more than dead weight. This is _my_ death sentence, not their's.

_Just don't drag_ my_ family into it. . ._

Leo's right. I can't drag them into this. I can't let them pay for my mistake. I can't—

A flash of sliver bites into the soft green casing of the cell, stealing it from my hand and tacking it to the wall. I jerk back, air whistling pass my teeth in a quelled gasp. My eyes fly up, locking with jade green.

"Karai." I growl, grip turning my knuckles a greenish white against the black corded handle.

"Raphael," she regards coldly, katana drawn by her side, "My father has no need of your family's interference in this battle." her eyes gleams and a wicked smile, tainted by something I can't name, tugs her lips up.

I step forward, sai and fist ready, "Couldn't agree more, girly." my own mouth twists with contempt, "It'll be much more fun this way. Nobody to stop me from puttin' this sai through yer throat."

"You speak boldly for a turtle who is so greatly outnumbered." that Japanese lint of hers has always bugged me. Sickly sweet and yet so bitter. So familiar and comforting because of Splinter's voice, and now so polluted because of Karai. . .

_Rip her throat out, Raphie._

"Enough talk!" and I lunge.

My sai is dodged, countered by a well made katana. Steel gleams as Karai dances back and draws her blade up again—like an elegant brush stroke that paints the air with a line of silver. I rush forward, intent on taking her down once and for all.

Our weapons lock. We circle, eyes latched onto each other in a show of intimidation and petty dominance. I'm reminded of Leo and I, just hours ago, as we followed much the same path. Guilt raises in my gut; it tastes of salt and copper and—

Silent feet land with echoing thuds, shadows bathe us. I don't need to look to know the Foot pawns have caught up and are now waiting for their signal to attack.

Freaking cowards.

Steel spark together and we disengage, never breaking from the pattern we travel. Shadily, I risk a glance at the swarm of enemies around me. At least a hundred mesh covered eyes are aimed my way.

Too many.

I try to calm down, catch my bearings. Sucking in deep breaths that burn my dry mouth. Thirsty. Tried. _So tried_.

"Insomnia is a deadly foe, Raphael." Karai announces, shifting her blade again.

_Why that no good, dishonorable, self-righteous bi—_

A sadistic laugh ejects into the night, "Yeah? So is a pissed off ninja." I shake my head, edging back slightly.

_Ya need ta focus! Not the time ta lose it._

Karai re-engages with an irritatingly graceful pitch towards my neck. I barely move in time, countering with the stolen weapon and shoving her back with my free hand. I sweep my leg low, attempting to knock her off her feet. Like a limber cat, she leaps backwards, landing on her hand and twirling into a crouch.

Wickedly and without much thought, I throw the weapon full force at Karai's head. It clips her raven black hair, narrowly missing the delicate flesh of her cheek. The weapon strikes the brick wall of the opposing building, burying itself there and out of my reach.

So close.

Karai's gasp is almost too soft to hear, but it still makes me grin.

She stands straight, sheathing her katana before touching a gloved hand to her offended cheek. With more grace than even Leo displays, she retreats to the building behind her with a single back flip.

"What? Had enough?" a tinge of arrogance seeps into my tone.

"You misjudge my actions, Raphael. My task here is done." she bows.

Disarmed. Just peachy.

_Peachy? Ya basically disarmed yerself. . . freakin' brilliant move, lug-head._

For an instance I hold my breath, waiting for Shredder's mocking laugh to ring through the night. Yet it remains silent. The heavy landing of an overgrown mass has me spinning to face the new opponent.

Knuckles crack. "Hello, _freak."_

"_Hun_," I growl, lips curling back and fists tightening on impulse.

His feet strike the rooftop like lead weights, each step sending vibrations through the surface. The Foot clinging to the ledges tighten their grips. I stand my ground, the drip of blood from my bicep suddenly very loud.

He stalks forward with a delirious grin, the kind a psychopath would wear when their victims were begging for mercy.

Now I don't know about the psychopath part, but I sure ain't begging.

"What?" I flick blood off my fingertips, feigning indignant disbelief. "No Shredder? Now that's just insultin'."

The wall of meat rolls his neck, blond hair falling off the thick cords of his overly large shoulder; anger creases his brow. "Master Shredder requested I rip out that insolent tongue of—"

"Whoa, insolent? That's a big word, yer been reading a dictionary, brick head? I'm impressed." I laugh, hysteria raising as I struggle to stay standing.

"Laugh while you can, freak. I'll teach you your place."

He attacks. His massive frame lurching towards me in a flash; faster than a man his size should be capable of moving.

I careen to my left, somersaulting out of the way in the nick of time. I stumble up in my drunk-like state, fighting for lucidity. Nothing is clear. My ears are ringing with fevered delirium. Vision clouded by a fog of pain and fatigue. The nerves of my fingers too numb to feel, to grip into a ready fist.

I'm struck from behind. Helplessly, I collapse into the ledge, plastron colliding with concrete with a crack. The blow knocks the wind out of me. Copper fills my mouth as I push away. Bewildered, I spit. Cerise spots mottle the slush, ugly and daunting and very strange.

_Called blood, _It mocks, and I can see a figure in my dreams, see the blood dripping as it laughs—. _pff, can't even take a damn hit..._

Heavy footsteps and a rumbling laugh coddle my attention. "Not so tough now. Without those toothpicks you call weapons or your family of freaks to back you up, you're nothing. Ha, ha, ha."

I scoop a handful of icy mush. "Says the mountain sized asshole who has an army to back _him_ up." I gabble, words too tainted with blood and nausea to make any sense.

_Just hit 'im already!_

The wound in my bicep screams as I shove off, pivoting with such force stars burst before my eyes. Blindly, I let the slush fly.

—And a hand closes around my wrist just as my vision returns. Pain flares through my nerves as Hun squeezes, within seconds the remaining feeling in my fingers vanish. Dumbly, I stare at the black wall in front of me, hardly registering the way it stretches and contracts.

My eyes climb until light skin, speckled with ice, disrupts the cloth. It's then that I realize the giant ox is talking, whether to me or his Foot lackeys, I can't tell. The ringing in my ears is suddenly all too loud.

Hun draws his free hand up, as if to strike me, instead he swipes the snow off his neck—

My feet jerk off the ground and the next thing I know I'm on the opposing rooftop, the one Karai had leaped to earlier. The resounding crack of my shell ushers away the white noise and I roll. Skin prickling with fiery pain.

My arm seeps sticky red; gravel and skin falling away when I move it. Revulsion raises in my throat. With a breathless growl I stagger to my feet. Wet heat slithers down my outer thigh, the smell of bitter metal saves me the trouble of looking down.

More blood.

Instead I quickly scan the area around me, vaguely aware of what I'm even searching for. Until two pairs of Karai's jade eyes protrude from the thick midnight darkness and matching army of black-clad Ninjas. As if one wasn't bad enough, now I'm seeing double.

Clutching my new injury in an effort to slow the bleeding, I bare my teeth.

She doesn't seem amused. Dainty but deadly hands climb in mock surrender. "I suggest you pay heed to your current opponent, Raphael." with a flick of her wrist, she gestures to the landing mass of Hun. I shiver, my breath racking through clenched teeth and shuddering out like a growl. A very unimpressive grumble that does nothing but grow the smirk on Hun's ugly mug.

"I've been looking forward to this for far too long, Freak."

"Ya mean..." I pant, raising to meet his challenge. "since I broke up yer little weapon pickup... and kicked yer sorry ass?" my injured leg shakes and I shift as much weight as I can off of it. "Yeah, it's been awhile."

He swings and I duck. With a grunt of effort I spring up and deliver an uppercut to his jaw. Beyond the clash of teeth jarring into teeth, Hun stumbles back barely half a foot, but it's enough for me to pivot on one heel and slam my knee into his side. A rill of pain burst blotches of yellow and blue in front of my eyes. And I feel my leg buckle.

In my sudden spinning daze Hun rebounds from my attack and seizes my shell. Air lash at my skin as he shaft me into the ground. I struggle up, the effort rewarded with what I could only guess is a boot into my unprotected ribs.

"If revenge is a dish best served cold, then I'm dining on turtle soup tonight."

I cough blood on the ground and draw my glare up. His tattoo swims into focus, a giant purple chicken with an attitude problem. And I think, there's no way in hell I'm getting my shell handed to me by _him. _At least, not without a hell of a long fight.

Not before I give him a few new scars to remember me by.

Every nerve, every muscle, every bone aches. The cold lashes at my skin and shivers clamber up my spine. The world narrows down to this. To this rooftop. To this fight. To this seven-foot tall bastard who's aiming to tear me apart. Beyond this new little hole of existence nothing else matters.

Nothing at all.

**~*~ Time: 1:26 ~*~ POV: Leonardo  
**

I never knew how loud silence could be; never knew quite how maddening it could become. . . until now. Every moment I spend sitting here, sunk listlessly into my father's old brown recliner, I learn a new reason why the absence of sound truly is torture.

Fabric ruffles as I twist in my increasingly uncomfortable seat and trade a groggily glare with the digital clock above the TVs. The green numbers glow dully in the deep shadows of the living room, a bright spot that only succeeds in sucking away my hope. Leeching away the dim flicker of light from my conscious.

The door reflects in the lifeless screens below; still and sealed and very much lacking the domineering presence of my brother.

My loud, brazen, tongue-in-cheek brother.

No sound. No Raphael.

I reach towards the side table, tap the teapot and listen to its hollow clang. Empty, I frown. An entire pot of calming tea and I'm still sitting here, awake. Worried.

On any other night, I'd be out looking for Raph to drag his shell home—something I very nearly did the night before, at three in the morning. But after what I said to him?

Father is right. . .

"_Words, my son, are dangerous weapons. They have the ability to hurt. . . and to kill. The wounds they inflict can often not be seen; as with Raphael, it is because he wishes them so."_

_There had been a long pause, in which my hands held the whole of my attention. I couldn't look into my Father's eyes; or at the red hilts and silver steel of my younger brother's sais. "This is a dangerous practice, my son, for when a wound is left to bleed and fester, the damage cannot be so easily undone. This is something you and your brother share common ground on, Leonardo. No matter how much you try to argue that truth._

"_Your own fear and worry for Raphael plague you, and because you _refuse_ to admit this fear to your brother it consumes you. And like any plague, my son, once it is deeply enough rooted. . . it spreads. Do you understand?"_

I rub my unmasked eyes, look to the ceiling. "Yes. Yes, I understand." my voice seems impossibly loud in the silence and incredibly foolish because I'm alone. Tiredly, my gaze wanders to Master Splinter's door, as if expecting it to open.

In the shadows I can almost see where I stood hours ago, head and heart heavy, hand on the fragile Japanese paper door.

"_I know your fear is great, Leonardo," my master's voice had stopped me. "but I ask that you do not seek Raphael. No matter how good your intentions, I fear that after the events of this night. . . that the morning could very well yield a great loss."_

_His eyes shined with the candle light, and something else. . . a calm sadness that shoved guilt further down my throat._

"_Raphael would never deliberately harm this family, but as you have conceded, my son, the same might not be true for his own wellbeing. I feel it is wisest for you to meditate on this, Leonardo, and speak with your brother when he returns."_

_If_ he returns, was all I could think. _Is_ all I can think about now. Enough! Just enough.

I dig an elbow into the armrest and allow my head to fall restfully into my palm. I let the silence envelop me in an austere kind of comfort; let the soothing warmth of the calming tea flow through my veins; let the familiar brush of worn fabric knead the tension from my tight muscles.

My eyes close as a yawn escapes me.

The concept of sleep seems very far away, even with the tugging darkness, my slowing pulse, and the quieting of thoughts, I don't believe I'm drifting. Until the shadows behind my lids slip into a deeper darkness. And I forget just what I'm so worried about. . .

**~*~ Time: 1:40 ~*~ POV: Raphael  
**

_What does it feel like to be paralyzed by fear?_ Just last night I had paused to the utterance of that question. And now, I guess I know the answer.

It's a sensation of being haltingly disconnected from your body, where thought doesn't come in any coherent form, and no commands reach the heavy limbs. There is no rationality to it, all it is is a feeling. A heightened awareness of every sound, every smell, every touch. The worse part is knowing exactly what is happening, what you're seeing or experiencing and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

The abrasive texture of gravelly cement is felt even through the natural armor of my plastron. It grinds into my hips, rubs my skin raw. My mouth feels like I swallowed dirt, so dry yet it tastes of vomit and blood—and I swear I've bit part of my tongue off.

Light and colors dance before my eyes. Blood pulse behind my ears, cascading from my many wounds only to pelt the ground like rainfall. It reminds me of a storms, of thunder and lighting and a mid-summer downpour.

I can't understand the pressure, the thrum of heat swelling in my body; like everything inside is trying to erupt. That can't be right. I've lost too much blood for that. I'm just panicking.

And I am.

Beyond the cold, there is a fire, a raging blaze scorching my insides and melting away all calm. And I hold my breath, because Donnie always said fires die without oxygen. And so do people.

_Breathe dammit!_

I choke and sputter, digging fingertips into unyielding stone. And I finally find the coherency to name what lay before me. Greenish brown and rough with ridges. It's no longer than my palm and no wider than my finger. Small impressions thread through it and in a spout of torturous lucidity I can see them all.

A rim of my shell.

It hadn't even hurt. Just the sound of snapping plates and then this. A piece of me. . . gone.

Quickly enough, however, shame raises to stomp out the embers, and I force myself up once more. Mesh eyes stare down at me, jeering and unnerving. They swarm, pupil-less windows to emotionless souls. I'm suddenly reminded of a fly's eyes; just another reason to hate them.

I turn from them, grasping at any strength I might still have left to stagger to my knees. Hun laughs at my display. This is nothing more than an unfair beat down, I think, as I take in the minimal damage I've dealt. Asides from a nick on his leg, gifted to him by the blade of a clumsy Foot soldier who got too close to me, he's unharmed.

_Get up. Now._

Obediently I shuffle my feet beneath me. The world sway, but somehow I remain standing.

"You freaks never know when to stay down." he rumbles, opening his clenched hand. Hollow thuds and a blur of color draw my gaze down. Two more shards of my shell.

I resist the urge to touch the abused exoskeleton. More out of the fear of what I'll find than defiance towards my enemy.

_Superficial Raphie-boy, it ain't like he ripped yer freakin' arm off._

Right. Doesn't matter. "Where's. . . the fun. . . in that?" a cough rattles my bruised ribs.

The moon shines down on the gray battlefield, highlighting darker crevices and cerise smears. It tilts, heaves to meet me and I realize I'm collapsing. In a splurge of artful improvisation, I use the momentum to lurch forward with a coiled fist.

The jab is dodged. My reflexes are too slow; and even though I see the move coming, I can't pull back in time to stop it. I'm grabbed; like a rag doll, the brute jerks me forwards and around.

I hear a pop in my left shoulder and feel the tear of muscle like a gun shot. Then, Hun lets me go and I reel into the wall. Before my feet can even touch the ground, the air is retched from my lungs by a fist driving into my stomach. I drop to the ground, bricks flying after me. There's no time to move.

The chimney buckles to the blows; crumbling, falling after me. It screams its own sort of agony, shuddering my yelp to a stop half way up my throat.

Blackness drags me down, washes away the flaring pain. I feel myself sinking in it, feel the rush of emptiness sweeping over my conscious.

Something stops it. And I blink into the shadows, suck in dust and debris. The taste of smoke coats my tongue, suffocating me.

And I know I need to get out. Now.

I fight to free myself from the tomb, pushing aside cracked bricks with bleeding elbows and palms and forearms. Forcing my arms to work, my legs to work; crawling forward like a beaten dog. A hand breaks free, shattering the absolute darkness and meeting empty ground. Inch by inch, I free myself more.

Triumph pulse through me when I finally take a breath of dustless air. The celebration doesn't last long.

Something big and corded with muscle latches onto my head. Blotches of light burst behind my lids as it's rammed into unforgiving stone. Once. The crack of skull rattles me. Twice. Pain flares beyond any I've ever known.

_Stop!_

Again. My stomach lurch.

Again. I swear I blackout.

Again. . . My head drops.

I pant against the ground, relishing the sweet kiss of ice over my bruised cheek. For a short time it quells the spinning and fading. My green arm comes into focus, the flesh patterned crimson. Fingers flinch into the roof at the presence of fat white digits approaching the limp limb.

Fire erupts in my—dislocated?—shoulder. Jagged stones cut into my legs, slicing deeper and deeper. Suddenly something very sharp breaks my skin below my knee, I bite my tongue when I feel it touch bone.

Sticky wetness surprises me and my jaw unlocks with a scream, the sound so riddled with agony, that for a small moment, all else in the world is lost. And it's just me and the pain; me and the red acid scorching open wounds; me and the blaze roaring past my shoulder into every part of my body.

For just a moment, I forget who I am.

It ends with the abruptness of running face first into a brick wall, or in reality, being slammed into the concrete rooftop.

Then I'm being lifted, pulled from the icy surface and hung above the ground. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, believing that only darkness can possibly be awaiting me on the other side. _Fearing_ that I'm wrong.

_Open yer damn eyes!_

I've never known lids to be so heavy. It takes every sliver of my conscious will to force them up; the process feels painfully slow. A red fog tinge the corners of my half-lidded sight, blurring everything into a colorless blob before me.

Before I can catch my bearings, I'm dropped back, legs collapsing beneath my weight like the paper 'action figures' Mike had made when we were five had crumpled to my foot. I land in the pile of bricks, rolling—more like falling onto my battered side with a harsh grunt.

Blood cascades down my temple, my forehead; seeps through my battered mask. Falling into my open eyes like rusty water, clouding my vision with a blinding metallic sting. In a hazy flash, I'm reminded of metal dust being flung in my eyes by a lucky street punk over a year back. Of the way it burned like fiery needles. After that assault I couldn't see for a week.

That's how my eyes feel now; my blood mixed with sweat and ice and dust. Only I need my damn vision tonight—over a year back I had my brothers by my side. Now. Now I stand alone.

Tonight I'll die alone.

The thought doesn't bring the rush of panic it should. Instead a strange wash of relief engulfs me; a sort of peace as I float in the blazing whiteness, only disturbed by licks of regret and hollow sadness.

Regrets for every time I thumped Mike upside the head, or refused to watch a movie with him. Regrets for not talking to Don when the brainiac needed to clear his head, or not dragging him out of his lab at three in the morning every chance I had. Regrets for... Leo. For failing him. For fighting with him. For being such an ass. For _everything._ And Splinter, my Father, there are regrets I can't even begin to name.

There's sadness for not saying 'I love you' nearly enough.

Laying on my side, I feel the prickle of welling tears in the back of my eyes. My head pounds with the effort to hold them back, my heart aches with the need to let them go.

But I won't.

I wipe the cerise liquid from my eyes with a single vicious motion. And am surprised that the first thing I notice is the sky. A still black blanket that spans over the whole of New York. Silent. No rain. No thunder. The wind has even died down.

Nothing like the time Leo crashed through April's apartment window, a bruised and defeated heap soaked with rain and broken glass—a sight that sent both rage and fear jolting through me as if I myself had just been struck down. There's not the fury and sorrow of this situation reflected in the roar of a storm.

There's not the fury and sorrow in _me_.

Even in my dazed state, of all the things to be angry at, the weather should be the last thing deserving a glare. But here I am, narrowing my eyes at the mocking calm and wondering why the hell I can't go out like the heroes in the novels and movies that Mike ramble about all too often? Die to the clashes of thunder and flashes of lightning.

_Ain't a hero. How could ya be if ya can't even save yerself?_

A lumbering shadow blocks my view and halt my thoughts. I'm faintly aware of a noise. A laugh? Maybe— No. That can't be right. It's. . . metallic; strangely shrill; echoing. I know that sound, have heard it before.

Heard it _that_ night.

Ice runs through my veins and I cough blood. I struggle to keep down my bile—even though I'm fairly certain there's nothing in my stomach to hack up—and swipe a clumsy hand over the hot liquid dripping from my lips.

Red stains emerald and I manage a weak grin.

A monstrous hand seizes my bicep and jerks me up. I hiss at the new assault on my wound, staggering to get my feet beneath me. Failing to do so.

Then I'm forced to my knees, clothed fingers of normal sized humans—if ya could call 'em that—wrap around my wrists; arms lock below my elbows. Restrained.

A pair of silver boots with wicked spikes shine against the chipped, blood smeared surface of the rooftop. The metallic laugh rings again, coarse against my pounding ears.

_Shredder._

My subconscious growls, I can't find the strength to verbalize the thought. He knows who he is.

_And he knows he has ya beat. The least ya could do is show a little bit of defiance._

_I can't._

_Yes, ya can. Fer Leo? Fer Don and Mike and Splinter? Do it. Do Something!_

A swish of rebellion fills my mouth and I spit it at his feet; dismayed by the fact that it's more blood than saliva, but it's the best I can do.

_Attaboy._

Shredder strikes out, snatching my chin between two metal fingers; I fight back a wince as he forces my head up. "Your impudence does not impress me, _Raphael_." His red eyes glow demoniacally in the recesses of his helmet. I'm reminded of staring into the same eyes in the dead of night, only the orbs come from behind a red mask. And its my face I'm looking into. . .

How many screams have been caught in the depth of my pillow? How many times have I buried my face in the soft fabric, trying to blotch out the images of a too-real nightmare? Shell, what I wouldn't give to be screaming into that pillow right _now._

Hun moves to stand behind his master, the smirk on his face is enough to set my teeth into a raging snarl.

"Ya know what doesn't impress me?" I ground out, surprised I can even speak at this point. "This." I try to jerk my head to the left, but the grip doesn't yield. So I speak, "All the freakin' Foot ya have ta pull out of yer ass jus' to take me down. Yer a effin' coward."

He draws me closer with a swift jolt; the protest in my shoulder curls my lips back. "You dare speak of me in such a vile manner! Foolish worm, I shall relish killing you."

My laugh is brittle, "Go ahead." He releases me with an agonizing twist; pain saccades down my spine. My head bobs against my chest, racking me with nauseous.

"In time, Turtle." his voice taunts, boots clanging on stone. "After I've ripped every scream from your lungs and you've begged for death's mercy. After I've broken you and that pride you value so. After I've made your _wretched family _suffer for their crimes against me, I'll kill you and drop your body in the sewers for the rats to consume."

His words steal the color from my face. Ever muscle in my body goes ridged with a coldness that has nothing to do with any tangible force. I can feel my body draining, heart sinking. Feel his vicious grin behind that metal mask. Know what he's going to say next.

"Tell me, little turtle, what will that do to them? That so called family you cherish so? When my Foot deliver your carcass to their door." an almost thoughtful pause. A laugh. "Yes, I'm sure you will betray them long before that; tell me what hole they cower in. Won't you, Raphael?"

My throat works, I will my voice not to waver. "It doesn't matter what ya do ta me."

"You underestimate me? Or are you so confident in your own loyalty?" His blade slides under my throat, cutting my breath short. With a carefully pressure, he tilts my face to his again.

And I've never felt more vulnerable in all my fifteen years.

"Even if you never speak a word, I can ensure you it will make no difference. Soon enough they shall crawl out of their hole and challenge me; and one by one, I will kill them. And when that time comes, if you are still alive, I'll let you watch." This time, he bring his metal mien to mine, so my eyes are level with his red glower. A shiver races through my limbs, one I can't control. "Do you know why, Raphael?"

_Tell him ta go ta hell._

"Because, of all your _brothers_, you are the worse. Beyond even your precious leader, you've become the biggest thorn in my side. And now you shall pay."

A growl echoes deep in my mind, _Kill 'im, Raphie-boy. . . Kill. Him._

I know that's impossible, but I want so badly to rip screams from his own throat. To hear him beg. I let my eyes close; let my arms go completely slack; let the touch of razor-sharp steel and rough hands consume me. I might not be able to kill him, but that doesn't mean I can't die trying.

Frigid resolve trickles through my nerves.

Donnie will know. If I do it right, Donnie will know. There'll be too much blood. They'll be safe. . . Safe.

_. . . Do it._

"Well?" his voice clicks with arrogance.

For the first time in over two weeks, I don't feel tired. I don't feel confused. I feel. . . ready.

And I open my eyes, "There's jus one problem." my voice drone, sounding distance and frighteningly like the one in my nightmares. Like the one in my head.

Reflected in the daunting silver before me, my amber eyes glow like hot embers. My torn mask cast shadows over a raving smile I can't recognize as my own.

"Ya can't kill me. . ." _I'm no use to you. You can't use me against __my brothers. Leo would never risk our family. __Your plan fails__._ "if I'm already dead."

Swifter than I've ever moved, I spring to my feet; lunging away from claws and throwing my arms forward. The Foot clinging to my limbs reel head first into their master. Raging hate spills from a covered mouth, and Shredder rushes towards me.

I act on nothing but instinct, narrowly dodging his claws and racing towards the building's edge.

A sea of black flood around me, but it's too late. I break through the swimming mass, feel my legs reacting on autopilot as they step up—

Stone crumbles beneath my feet before I can make the suicide jump. Then I'm falling. Shell scraping against brick; skin retching raw; mind spinning in a lucid spike of adrenaline. Of fear. Rocks strike the grimy ground below me, deaf to me, drowned out by the wind. They soar above my head, threatening to crush me. My throat constricts, eyes slam shut. A moment of unbelievable pain ripples through me.

Then. . .

Everything goes black.

And for once, I feel nothing.

Nothing at all. . .

* * *

**A/N: WAIT! **

**Lower your pitchforks and torches, please, and let me say something. I never said this was a death fic, and I never said it wasn't. Everything is up in the air right now. If he is dead, then this story isn't going to be very long. If not, well, then don't we have a long road to travel, my friends. *evil grin*  
**

**Okay, so *eye readers warily* how did I do on the villains' dialogue? Its been a really long time since I've heard any of them ramble on, so it was fairly difficult to write. And Hun . . . isn't soup hot? lol, *shakes head* yeah, IDK. And a quick note on Shredder, the whole 'biggest thorn in my side thing'. Key word there is 'you've become'. This isn't based in the 2k3 series, or the 2007 world, but I've taken a few events from them as inspiration. Thus, I can play around with who hates who or whatever. And let's face it folks, Raphael have saved his brothers more than a few times, I wouldn't doubt that at least one of them would be dead (or seriously injured) if it wasn't for him. And Shredder wants them dead.**

***Shrug* So I hope y'all enjoyed this and are going to stick around to find out the fate of our favorite red-masked ninja. And feel free to rant, rave, or critique. Cause any feedback helps and I really am grateful for all the kind words so far. Well would you look at that, this end note is super long! ha ha, knew it was too good to be true. The rambler lives! ;)  
**

**Cheers, from your RedWritingRebel  
**


	5. Chapter four: By Thy Brother's Blood

**Disclaimer: *Count change from last chapter* No. . . but can I buy?  
**

**Y'all are so incredible. I wanna give y'all a hug! Your support is just insanely cool :D And look at that *points up* look at all those reviews! You think we can get it up to 50 by the end of this chappy? That'd be *Jumps up and do happy dance* sw_eeeeeee_t! Lol.  
**

**A/N: *Stare at readers with owlish eyes* I did it! *maniac laugh* I finally finished this freaking chapter! ****On a more depressed note. . **. I apology in advance for any OOC-ness, crappy dialogue, or spell/grammar mistakes. I couldn't bring myself to read over this too closely. Cause it's late and I probably would have ended up deleting it and starting all over again. I just _really _don't like it. -_-'

**But I do hope you can find some enjoyment in it.  
**

**So here we go, chapter 4: By Thy Brother's Blood.  
**

_Word count: 4799, which is actually a lot less than I would have liked. *Shrugs*  
_

_Exercise Goal: The suspension bridge. Hold the readers on a pin until the very end._

* * *

**_Chapter Four_**

**_By Thy Brother's Blood_**

**Date: February 4; Time: 6:14 am . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Donatello  
**

The blare of an old alarm clock rattles me awake. I jerk up, arms flaring in search of the source of the offensive noise; papers toppling in their wake, raining down like confetti only to scatter on the floor.

With a groggily groan, I twist in my chair and unplug the clock's cord; the sound shudders to a halt. I pop the stiffness from my back and winkle my nose against tingling indentions. I just had to fall asleep on my keyboard, again.

Noise shutters in through my cracked door and I stand up, shuffling paper beneath my feet as I make my way to it. A yellow line of light spray across the living room floor, casting all else in weak shadows. With the thin illumination as my guide, I walk the dozen feet to the infirmary door and twist the handle. It barely makes a sound as it swings open and I'm left staring into an empty room. The smell of antiseptic is strong.

I release a gust of relief and click the door shut once more. I don't know what I had been expecting, my brother bled out on the floor?

Well _that's_ highly illogical. There'd be a blood trail and several panicking family members buzzing around. I shake my head. Coffee. I need a huge mug to curb my fatigue and an aspirin for my neck ache and the sure to result headache that'll come before breakfast is even over.

Then I can deal with Raphael. And Mike. . .

I groan. Remembering the furious tears that sparkled in the depth of his blue eyes. Eyes that have always been full of innocences and forgiveness; two things that vanished in seconds last night.

_Mikey turned furious blue eyes on the leader, pushing away the cane that stopped our path to the lair door and coming far too close to Leo. "Way to guilt trip a guy, Leo. Like he didn't already feel bad enough about what happened."_

"_You don't understand, Michaelangelo—"_

"_No! You're the one who doesn't understand." I grabbed his arm, recognizing the fragility of this whole situation. Mike rarely gets angry, but when he does he's almost as bad as Raph. And the last thing I needed was two brothers fighting with Leo and storming out of the lair. "Are you forgetting how he saved my shell, twice, and got hurt doing it?! And what about Donnie! If it wasn't for him—"_

"_Michaelangelo, that is _enough._" Splinter urged, and I locked eyes with Leo for a long moment and felt my own anger rising._

_Where was the 'enough' when Leo was tearing Raph apart?_

"_But Sensei—"_

"_Come on, Mikey." I pulled my flaring brother into the kitchen, only barely aware of what he was shouting at Leonardo. And hardly caring._

Yeah, a real fun night for everyone.

Its just a good thing the youngest is so quick to forgive. . .

Soft breathing draw my attention to the living room. A mask-less head, wilted into a palm and looking the picture of peace melt a fraction of the foreign anger still lingering at the edge of my conscious. The quilted blanket I had thrown over my brother on my last coffee run still covers him, rising and falling with a steadiness I've long associated with Leonardo.

A steadiness that was very much lacking last night.

Everyone is allowed their breakdowns, and after the pressures of the past weeks, I shouldn't be surprised the blue-banded turtle's calm finally shattered.

I leave my brother for the smell of brewing coffee and food, moving on silent but dragging feet.

At the oven Mike wields a spatula, skillfully flipping something I recognize as hash and eggs and chopped bacon. A cutting board sits off to the left, freshly cut tomato and mushroom piled high on the wood surface.

I lean against the door frame, eying Mike's shell with something between admiration and amazement. _Of_ _course_ he cooked Raph's favorite breakfast.

An orange bandanna tail flaps with the spin of a sea green head. Shining eyes dim and a splitting smile fall, "Oh, morning Don."

"Morning,"

He turns back, movements less enthusiastic than before, "Raph isn't up yet?"

"After last night? I doubt he'll be up before noon, Mike." I stifle a yawn.

"Oh. . . yeah, you're probably right, bro." his voice falters and I can taste his disappointment on my thick, dry tongue. His shoulders slump as he removes the pan and clear its content into a bowl.

I put my fingers to my chin, weighing the effects of a depressed Mike to the danger of waking a sleeping—not to mention ticked—Raphael. One more look at my youngest brother tips the scale.

"But Raph _did_ miss dinner last night." I fight back my own smile when hopeful eyes glance my way. "So there's a high probability that he'll drag his shell out of bed long enough for breakfast."

"Great! Just one thing. . ."

"And that is?" I roll my finger when he doesn't continue, tilting my head forwards.

"Who be risking the black eye today?"

I snort at the pirate accent, though silently have to agree.

Mikey jerks his thumb to a pot filled to the brim with black liquid. "Aye matey, all that gold be yours if you but return with the turtle from that deadly cave."

I raise a ridge at that, "Really? You're going to do that _this_ early in the morning?"

"Dude, I'm _Mikey,_ how can't I? Now," he says, dropping the pink spatula he'd been wielding and arching for the cupboard. A yellow mug is pulled and seconds later a full cup of coffee is sloshing under his nose. He takes a deep whiff, "Do we have a deal?"

With a Raph style eye roll and the driest tone I can muster, I salute, "Aye aye, captain." and pivot on my heels.

The kitchen is left behind to my muttering things about little brothers.

I ascend the stairs, hand grasping the rusty red railing out of habit. But something stops me, a tension knot, settling in my stomach and tightening with each step I take.

Running water echoes from the bathroom. The light is on and the door opened wide. I pass it on my way to Raph's room. Pale green hands grip the porcelain sink, water dripping from the fingertips and a taut face level with the fogging mirror. A brow pinch over closed eyes. If nothing else, it appears that my eldest brother is giving himself a pep talk.

Just a few feet over lay Raphael's room. I hesitate on the other side of the swingable wall, fingers twitching nervously by my sides. I'm about to decide breakfast is overrated by dietitians, when I remember how badly I need to talk to my brother.

It feels like ropes are tied to my hands, and they fight me when I reach for the door. A timid knock slaps away the foolishness and I rap my knuckles against the wood with three resounding thuds.

No one answers.

Silence fills the void left behind. No snores. No grunts to be left alone. Not even the crack of a book's spine. The door squeaks on the hinges, howling its disapproval and crying a warning to go no further. The knob slips from my fingers as the obscuring surface inches inwards; and I flinch instinctively, half expecting someone to shove the door closed.

It would be irrational, I know, if it hadn't happened before.

"Raph?"

No answer.

"Raphael?" my voice echoes back and I push the door open further. Even further when no lamp or alarm clock shatters nearby. I reach for the light switch, frowning when it takes three tries to hit it. And I'm struck by just how infrequently I come in here.

The shadows scurry away under a flickering bulb, the unsteady light seeping into every corner of the room. One last flash and the faltering glow gives way to a satisfying, unrelenting burn. I make a note to fix that.

But now, I surrender my makeshift and unneeded shield, stepping fully into the room with an aching pinch shrouding my heart.

Bits of metal and old parts litter the ground, the remains of an abused clock; a pile of crumpled paper gather near a half empty waste basket; books and magazines lay scattered in their homeless states.

I nudge debris aside with my foot, solemnly breathing in the smell of wetness, as if rain clouds hover over this domain. The underlining tinge of motor oil is even pleasant.

What isn't pleasant, however, is the still hammock hanging at the end of the small room; a blanket cast over the side and pillow repudiated to the floor.

Completely empty. Which means Raphael never came home last night. . .

With a final, quick glance about the room, I pivot on my heels and slam the light switch down on my way out. Uneasiness settles itself in my chest and by the time I reach the kitchen, I've already conjured up half a dozen possibilities.

Leo and Mike are talking at the table, the calmness reflecting from the two loosens the tautness of my shoulders.

_Just overreacting. Insomnia will do that to anyone. . ._

"Raph isn't in his room."

Two heads snap in my direction simultaneously, voices doing the same. "What?"

I hold up a placate hand, "Relax, he's probably at Casey's. I'll c—"

"I'll call!" Mikey shoots for the phone.

Onyx orbs grab mine. A long moment passes, in which the only sound is the distant drone of our orange-clad sibling. "Look, Donnie, about last night—"

"Don't say it, Leo." his lip twitches down. "I'm not the one you owe the apology to." I pick up the yellow mug from the counter, tilting it so it shimmers with gold ripples in the light. "I know you didn't mean any of it. . . I'm sure Raph does too. Really, we're good."

Michaelangelo tromps back to the table, face grim. "Casey said he hasn't seen or heard from him."

"Try his cell." Leo offers, already pushing himself out of the oak chair.

"I already did. He's not picking up." he shifts from foot to foot. "You don't think he's hurt, do you? Or—or maybe he left—"

"He wouldn't do that, Mikey."

Blue eyes darken, a chin lifts, and I can already see what's coming.

"Leo's right!" I interject, a bit too harshly.

"But Raph wouldn't stay out in broad daylight!"

A cane cracks against the ground, jerking all of our attentions to the low arching doorway, Splinter stands there. "I believe Michaelangelo is right, my sons."

"You think he's in trouble?" I venture, tugging my shell cell from my belt.

He strokes his chin, eyes dark and down cast to the crack threaded floor. "I. . . do not know. If Raphael is not back yet. . ."

"Track his cell, Donnie." Leo orders.

"Already on it."

My orange-clad brother cast a weary glance at the food spread across the table. A beep rings from my cell and a yellow blimp lights up the blue screen.

"Got him. He's still in the city."

I catch Splinter and Leo sharing a look before I'm over the threshold, following Mike into the damp sewers. For some reason, I can't name what passes between the two. For some reason, the miry air in the tunnels weigh heavy on my lungs. For _some_ _reason_, I can't get the thought of a dead brother out of my head.

And I'm suppose to be the rational one. . .

**~*~ Time: 6:28 ~*~ POV: Michaelangelo**

The sky is as dark as cobalt, swirling blacks and grays and distant blues in brewing storm clouds. Thunder rumbles above head, and the air smells of gathering rain. It reminds me of a horror movie. The moments right before chaos erupts. . .

I can't help but think how dangerous this is, rushing across rooftops when there are so many open eyes below. So many people who could so easily glance up and see three shadows darting by. Having grown up in the sewers with the constant warnings of the risks of being seen reminded to you daily, this feels too wrong.

But Raph is out here, and he needs us. Nothing else matters besides finding him and bringing him home. Nothing.

I follow my brother's flapping purple mask tail in silence, the beeps of the shell cell tracer drowned to near muteness in the wind. But I feel it like the thrums of my wildly beating heart. Lightning flashes overhead, painting the air with bright violet streaks. A glistening ray of metallic light bounces on the ground before me, and I slow my frantic pace to search the adjoining rooftop.

A flutter of disbelief seizes my heart and seals my throat. I halt completely, legs suddenly numb, and listen to my older brothers' disappearing footsteps. I can't find the power to yell out to them.

Crimson, that's the color of Raphael's mask. I've always wondered why he favors the color so much; it's vivid and loud and always demanding attention. And if there's one thing Raphie-boy hates, it's attention. So the only other reason I could fathom. . . is because it's the same color as blood.

And that's what I'm looking at now; what I'm moving _towards_ now: blood. A small lake of the smelly stuff, its cold and jelly like beneath my fingertips; old. In the center, a black gripped katana swims, blade tinged rusty with the liquid and ice.

_Not Raph's. It's not Raph's. Can't be his. He's fine._

I force my eyes away, scanning edgily for another clue. A five fingered hand print and unarguably human silhouette are stamped in blood onto the concrete.

It's enough.

I push from my crouch with fear spiking through my veins; not my brother's, but a Foot troop's. And somehow that's worse.

I rush across the rooftops; racing after my other brothers with the sting of monstrous images burning my eyes. Swarms of enemies circling a lone fighter; weapons breaking green skin; fabric tearing and soaking up cerise fluid. . . soaking until it drowns.

_No, he's fine._

Red dots speckle the slick gray stone; mounds of slush are patterned with embrasures carved from the heat the blood once held. My head feels light as I pass an arrow embedded into the rooftop; my gut knots tighter with every too loud step I take.

The sky lights again with the coming storm, and I can see two silhouettes in the distance, mask tails whipping in the ferocious wind. Panting, I slide to a stop where Leo stands, his teeth gritted and shoulders hunched against the cold.

Donnie glances up from the shell cell in his hand, face draining of his olive color as I stand there, trembling beneath his brown eyes. Fear retch up my throat and I clamp my jaw shut against the bile.

He nods to the brick shack on the next building, "The signal is coming from over there."

Leo glides past me, leaping wordlessly over with Don and I right behind him. We stop by some unspoken agreement; Blue circles the shack like a hungry shark. . . and freezes half way around with the abruptness of encountering something twice his size. . . and not knowing what to do about it.

"Leo?" my voice sounds strange to my own ears, and I can't form the question I want to ask. I can't even move from my place by the shack's little rusty door. Right now its all that protecting me from the truth waiting on the structure's other side.

My brother looks beyond the abrasive wall, eyes as wide as saucers and fists clenching. His hand reaches forwards and I cringe to the sound of metal ripping from brick.

There's an intensity in my eldest brother's eyes; an intensity that holds my focus and wards off my curiosity for what, exactly, he's glaring at. They narrow to slits of onyx, fragments of some foreign emotions glistering there like unearthed diamonds.

Beside me Don sucks in a breath and I feel my heart sinking. "No. . ."

"Leo?" I say again, nearly choking, because I already know what's on the other side. I look down, anxiety rolling in my gut like a hot wave and swelling, lashing at my throat in its effort to expel itself in a steaming surge.

"The Foot." Leo grounds, tearing the black hilted tonfa from the center of the victimized cell. Bits of green fall at his feet.

Don gait forwards like a blind man, stumbling once and groping with outreached hands. Leo surrenders the ruined tech to him and swirls the tonfa once between deft fingers.

"But Raph's fine. Right? I mean, he can handle a couple of Foot goons, no problem." Even as I speak the leader crouches, glaring at something I can't see before stretching to touch. "This _is_ Raph, guys."

_My hero. My big brother. _The same brother who limped home last summer after losing a quarter of his blood in a street brawl. Who lost nearly half his blood just two weeks ago and managed to pull through._ He has to be okay._

Don yelps and I catch sparks flying in the corner of my eye. "Give me your cell, Mike." he says, and I barely have it from my belt before he snatches it away.

He flips something up on the intact device and retracts a skinny cord from it. It slides into the totaled phone with a click and Don stares impatiently at the LED screen.

"Last recorded activity. . . was at one fourteen last night. . ." His brow falls, casting a strange light over his face as the sky erupts again. "To Leo."

"What?" the leader trace his hand back, fingertips glistening red. "I never got a call from him, Don—"

"Didn't go through." he interrupts, "Still, I've programed these things to set off an alarm at the lair if the signal is lost."

"Then why _didn't_ it?"

"Malfunction. . ." he mutters, though it sounds like he doesn't believes it himself. He disconnects the cells.

"How are we gonna fi—" I try, hopelessly cut off by the eldest.

"We're find him, Mikey. Come on, we're wasting time."

He keeps his eyes on the ground as he takes off, launching from one roof to the next. I stare after him. Stare at the black sai jutting from the stone of the other building.

Rough plastic presses into my palm and fingers tack into my bicep, urging me forwards.

"Let's go, Mike."

**~*~ Time: 6:37 ~*~ POV: Leonardo**

The smell of rain is sweet, like the gathering of freedom and carelessness and innocences in cool, cleansing droplets; its something I've always liked. Could get lost in for hours. Even as a kid I would stare up from the sewer grates as the water poured in.

But now, I feel the familiar sensation of suspended moisture in my sinuses, like the beginning of a bad cold. Pressing. Prickling at the edges of my sight; stuffing itself in my ears like cotton. Hanging in the air and radiating danger like sizzling electricity from a downed power line.

It takes my breath away.

Blood is everywhere. What first was just drops has grown to puddles. Congealed; speckled with crystals of ice that shine like scattered rubies in a shallow lake.

We're just six rooftops away from where Raphael's cell laid, abandoned and broken. And in so short of time, any hope I might have had of finding my brother alive, has died itself.

It's a canvas of gray, painted by red streaks and white slush, littered with crumbled bricks and slashes raked over the surface; it's the art of a madman. A destroyed chimney lay at my feet, jagged bricks spattered with blood and I swear there's shreds of green skin hanging from the brown stone. I won't look close enough to confirm it. Not without losing any handle of calm I'm still clinging to.

Not yet.

The surface of the roof is dented ever so slightly, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for these clues of what exactly happened. I hope it's a fist that struck that ground, and not what I'm fearing. . .

I turn away from the mess before me, watching as my brothers take in the scene. Don is bent over a set of claw marks—the _Shredder's_ mark—and small _lake_ of blood, his face masked in utter horror, and I just know he can see how each splash and each scar was formed. In his hand he grasps something small and green. I don't have to ask him what it is, I'm holding a piece too.

Mike is pale. His head shaking and eyes aimed anywhere but my direction.

My own head dips low, guilt weighing on my shoulders and noosing my heart. The rim bites into my palm when I squeeze.

_This can't be happening. . ._

"This isn't all his. Donnie? This _can't_ all be his." Mike's voice is leaking desperation. It washes over me with the sting of acid.

"It's. . ." the second eldest's hesitation says it all. I swallow, taking another survey of the rooftop and only finding a blur of colors.

And as obscured as it is, what it tells is perfectly clear: Death.

"It's his. . . Raph's." an olive head lifts and falls once, as if confirming it to himself.

"Well then we need to hurry up and _find_ him. Leo? What—what are you doing? Both of you. Come on. Before it starts—"

He halts mid-sentence; striding across the building with all the purpose of a suicide jumper climbing a bridge. Like it's his own option. And yet he _really_ doesn't want to do it. Not really.

"What is it? Michaelangelo?" Not a word from my baby brother. "_Mikey!_" I snap.

A single finger raises, pointing to the ledge with a quivering aim. So I follow his cerulean eyes.

Spidery cracks thread over the hard surface, burgeoning into a jagged arch of missing stone. My heart stops. Just for a moment. Then I'm moving, springing from my crouch and across the slick, bloody top.

A blue bandanna tail spills over my shoulder. Thunder roars. Everything spins.

I hardly register my feet meeting the rusted steel of a fire escape, or the outraged cries as it shakes underfoot. The stairs are passed, skipped over, fallen across. By the time I reach the bottom, my left arm is seeping red.

But that doesn't matter. Nothing could matter. Nothing but _this._

_My fault. This is all my fault._

Rocks are strewn around the alley floor, small chunks skitter off my slowly dragging feet. The smell of _blood_ is so heavy, so _thick._ It penetrates the air like needles through an eye. Invades my nose and stuffs itself down my throat. I can feel it on my skin.

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no._

_Please no._

The silent mantra of a plea doesn't change what's in front of me. Neither does the shrill voice of Mike behind me, or Don's painful rationality.

I'm staring at the aftermath of a four-story fall, at the neon _'open'_ sign that must have caved to the falling body. The O hangs from sparking wires, swaying in the flourishing wind above a bed of rubble. A cerise liquid blankets it.

What's so sick is that this truly is a deathbed. Stone curved into the makings of a crib, a spinning mobile above, the red covers. . .

The sky opens up, exploding with streaks of lightning and crashing thunder. Rain strikes my skin with the sharpness of needles, piercing my flesh and seeping into my very bones. It numbs me in seconds. And makes the pain all the worse.

It becomes all I can feel. All I _know._ It envelopes my whole existence.

And I scream. Roar my own hate and pain and guilt and anger with the deafening cry of thunder droning me out. My vocal cords stretch with the sound; ice invades my mouth and lines my throat; my heart turns to frozen crystal within my chest. Fragile and cracking. Heavy and refusing to beat.

And it's only when the sound dies, cuts off as bluntly and _cruelly_ as it began that I realize what I'm feeling. What's _boiling_ through my veins. Seeping from every pore and stinging my eyes with hardly suppressed tears: Loss.

True and permanent _loss_.

And when I turn away. Turn to face my brothers, I know I've scared them. Their eyes are dilated behind drenched and darkened masks, faces slack with horror, drawn back and painted by rills of rain.

And I know they feel it too.

And it's all my fault. . .

**~*~ Time: 7:41 ~*~ POV: Splinter**

My paws thump against the meditation mat as I pace the length of my chamber. I've never been one for the wasteful motion, but at times when meditation only yields more troubles than solutions, moving is sanity. Even with the dull pain and troublesome limp in my leg, it helps to calm nerves too tightly wound.

My second youngest son's sais lay crossed on a small tea table, the flicker of candle light reflects off of the polished steel and catch my eye each time I rear too close.

When it comes to weapons, Leonardo and Raphael have always cared the most for their's. In fact, the only time I've ever known those boys to coexist entirely in peace, is in the young hours of every Saturday. When they would both take up a square of dojo mat and soft cloth to tend to their weapons. And Raphael was without his last night. . .

Another length goes by and I sigh with the weight of a mistake not yet named.

My ears perk to the lair door grinding open and footsteps bouncing through the confines of our underground home. For several moments, only low breaths come through my paper door, then a timid knock.

I've never known Leonardo to be so apprehensive in approaching me.

My throat tightens. "Enter."

The door slides back, three of my sons standing in the doorway, dripping with water. Soaked to the bone and bandannas clinging to their flesh. I glance from each of their faces. Michaelangelo and Donatello's aimed at the floor and unwilling to lift under my gaze; they don't move from the threshold.

Leonardo walks forwards and falls at my feet, his hands shaking and balled into tauts fists. His eyes are lidded, cast to the ground. He swallows long and hard.

"I'm sorry, Father." his voice is a harsh rasp, grating across the air and spilling unspoken thoughts onto the ground.

"What has happened, my son?" I'm surprised by my own tone, the uncertainty in it. The fear.

"_Raphael_." he chokes, dragging his hands across the floor and kneeling lower. His palms open, pressing hard to the ground before reluctantly retreating to his sides.

Stark against the tan mat is a red mask piece, stretching as long as the mask tail draping over my eldest's sloughed shoulders. The battered remains of a shell cell rocks back and forth, flashing its wiry guts with each tilt.

"The Foot, Sensei. Raphael. . . he." another choke as Leonardo struggles to maintain some control; and I lean forward, fighting the urge to gather my son in my arms and take away his burden. Silence splits, shrouding the small room like a wool blanket in an oppressive summer heat.

"There was no body. . ." he finally whispers, eyes lifting to mine. In their depth, I see something no father should ever have to see in their children eyes. Self-hate. Fear. A pain too deep to name.

"But the blood. Father, there was so _much_. . ."

I feel my ears flatten to my skull; my heart sinking, contracting at the words. I take in the sight of my sons. My _remaining_ sons, and my eyes blur.

And in the confines of this small room, with the smell of incense strong and dancing orange light bright, I'm faced with a reality too heartbreaking for words to measure up; forced to accept something no parent should have to.

The death of one of their own children. . .

_No._

The disbelief rakes over me and my eyes slide close. To give up so easily. . . it is something Raphael would never do. Something I've taught my sons to never do.

It is something I won't do now.

For if I do, I fear it shall be the death of us all. And too deep of a betrayal to live with. . .

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading all! A few notes. I'm gonna try to get the next chapter (which I swear on all my years of writing WILL BE BETTER) out in the next 2 weeks and keep all future updates below the 3 weeks mark. If you haven't already voted on it, I have a poll up in my profile regarding this fic. Check it out, I'd love to hear what you think. :)  
**

**Also, I am now a beta reader! Which is both exciting and terrifying all at the same time. I really don't know what I've gotten myself into. On top of that I'm also now doing drabbles. Yes, that's right, I've taken on Notawordsmith's drabble a day challenge. Ha ha. . .  
**

**Now for a little internal dialogue for your entertainment.  
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**Optimist: No. Na-uh, I don't see no body, so I am NOT believing it. He is NOT DEAD. Can't be. Ha ha, no. Can't fool me.  
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**Pessimist: *grunts* yeah, he is. This crazy writer chick just likes to torture her readers. His body will probably be found in the LAST paragraph of the fic. Ha. I'm right, aren't I?  
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**Lol, that isn't even funny -_-'  
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**Cheers! your red writing rebel.  
**


	6. Chapter five: Bathed in Fire and Ice

**Disclaimer: Let me put it this way, if I owned TMNT, Raphael, a mutant _turtle,_ wouldn't have a _pet turtle _in the new series... who the shell came up with that one? -Not bashing the new series, it's just my weird opinion. ;)  
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**. . . What can I say? Y'all just went above and beyond this time. I mean, over 60 reviews!? That's insane. I don't want to just say 'thanks', cause it doesn't seem like enough. but: THANK YOU ALL FOR THE SUPPORT!  
**

**Which reminds me, I'm sorry for the whining of my last a/n. I shouldn't be so hard on myself and I shouldn't annoy y'all by beating myself up or whatnot. From here on out, no matter how I feel on my writing I promise I will not cry about it. I'll be proud of my work :) that's another thing I have y'all to thank for.  
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**A/N: Now having said all of that... I feel bad for what I am about to do to y'all. Notice the date. It's very important, cause, yes, this is a flashback chappie! *shields face* and you'll have to wait until the next chapter to find out if Raphie is alive. Yes, yes, I am quite evil, aren't I? First I skid past my update time by a mile and now, _this! _But I did promise y'all that Leo had a damn good reason to rip into Raphael the way he did, and this be it my friends. ;)  
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**To make matters worse. . . I'm taking a November Hiatus. . . so I can participate in NaNoWriMo with my Original Work. *Shy grin* Yeah. . . I wasn't even going to update this until December, cause I caught a case of writer's block on this fic then heard about NaNo and decided to do it, but a case of Midnight inspiration struck so here it is! *happy dance* XD Really hope this makes up for the mega long wait.  
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**Oh, and please read the end note! I left a present for y'all there!  
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**Hope y'all enjoy it! ^_^  
**

_Chapter five was previously known as 'Ye Know Not The Trouble That Lurks'. But now goes by. . . Bathed in Fire and Ice.  
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_Word count: 5423  
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_Exercise Goal: The flashback chapter. . . 'nough said?  
_

* * *

**_Chapter Five_**

**_Bathed in Fire and Ice_**

**Date: January 19; Time: 10: 13 p.m. . . . . . . . . . . . . Leonardo**

The smell was of salt and sulfur, a potent mixture that was trademark to New York City's harbors; the pressure of ice in the air weighed the odor deep in my lungs like a wet cloth. It was a cold night, one where the wind was brutal enough to cut through coats and the snow falling in heavy sheets, wet enough to invade shoes—if you were wearing any. I shifted my bare feet and tugged the collar of my brown jacket higher. Way too cold not to be moving.

Which brings me to Raphael.

He had already ditched his own coat and now stood with his arms crossed, facing me with all the defiance of a dauntless rebel. His body shook with mounting adrenaline and his brow raised to me, mouth curled into a taunting smirk.

I returned it with a pointed look and shook my head. _Unbelievable._

"What?" the grin slipped to the closest thing Raphael could get to innocent. "Ain't my fault trouble finds us, Fearless." sadly, I was inclined to disagree.

"No. But you could refine from looking for it." I deflated, taking in the sight of dozens of bodies scurrying between a shady warehouse and a mostly empty cargo truck. There was no question about it, my brother's a walking danger magnet. "This is suppose to be a training run, Raph; not patrol."

"True, but. . ." he jerked a thumb at the Purple Dragons below, "we're already here and—"

"And who are we, being brave mutant, ninja turtles with charming good looks to turn away from danger?" Mike interrupted, gesturing theatrically from himself to the enemies.

Raphael snorted, "As annoyin' as he is—"

"Hey!"

"—he's right. Look bro, I ain't jus' gonna walk away from this. We leave now and there's no tellin' how many _innocent_ people are gonna get hurt." he waved his arm towards the warehouse, face a sculpture of serious lines. And I knew he was right.

"Donnie, what are we up against here?" I swung my gaze to my purple-clad brother, who crouched by the ledge, binoculars in hand.

"No sign of Hun or the Foot, but. . ." he clicked the dial once, "I estimate there are about forty Purple Dragons, who appear to be attempting a weapon pickup."

We've dealt with more than that before, the presence of weapons—of _guns,_ however, could easily tip the scale to their advantage.

"Burnin' moonlight here, Fearless."

"Alright, but we stick to a plan; no unnecessary risks, watch each other's backs, stay together, and if you see a Dragon going after a crate—"

"We take 'em out. Yeah, we know, Fearless."

"_If_ you see a Dragon going after a crate and you _can't_ take them down, we get out of there, all of us. _No_ unnecessary risks, Raph." I repeated, locking eyes with my brother for a whole two seconds before he rolled his amber orbs.

"Yeah, I got it."

Swallowed by shadows and balanced on the outskirts of the moon's dangerous light, we made our way down from our rooftop perch and across the concrete sea walk. A sewer lid stood out in the silvery light, I nodded to it with a quick hand gesture.

_Any trouble, we meet up here._

Another forty feet and we hunkered under the yellow incandescence pouring from a window. I took in the noisy movement of many men; the squeal of a crane as it hoisted a crate in the air, swinging wildly.

"Slowly! You idiot, you wanna kill all of us?" an older man shouted, his hair shaved down to his skull, showing off the whole of his tattooed neck. "Its already cracked! If we return with any busted cargo, the Boss will have our heads."

"Yo _boss_, it ain't like its a bomb or nothin'." the crane operator laughed, and I traded a glance with my nearest sibling, Raphael.

"Don't make me come up there and kick your ass!"

"Whateva 's in those crates must be good. Newest tech, eh, Donnie-boy?"

"With Hun in charge now and the Foot patronage for his gang's operations, I'd say you're accurate on the assumption. And look at those containers, high grade aluminum, intricate locks, and that's just what I can perceive from this distance."

A snort.

"Merely backing up your hypothesis with data."

"You mean nerd talk?" Mikey giggled.

"Guys, _focus_." I glanced away from the arguing men, over the many crates piled and scattered around the warehouse. A catwalk stretched above the crane's neck like a guillotine.

_Perfect._

With a plan formulating in my mind, I glided away from the window, taking cover behind the concrete wall of the warehouse. A quick survey sleuthed out another window above us.

"What's ya thinkin', Leo?"

I pointed up, "That we should drop in."

Like a well oiled machine, we propelled each other to the opening, out of the icy air, and into the warm and echoing chamber of the warehouse's interior. The catwalk was steady beneath out feet and the shadows heavy with the rafters crossing overhead. Raphael pulled his sais and squatted behind the thin railing; his amber eyes glowed with disgust.

I gestured to a group of men below, then to the two youngest ninjas. A traded nod between my purple-clad sibling and I settled the rest. He followed me across the catwalk, above a group of Purple Dragons loitering around a crate.

Raphael twirled his sais once, took aim, then let it fly. It tumbled through the air and met it mark: the crane's controls. Sparks flew in time with multiple cusses.

"What the frigging hell was that!" one yelled.

Don and I leaped, taking down the group and opening the ground for Raph and Mike.

"What, you ask? Your friendly neighborhood turtles here to dish out a serving of piping hot justice!" the youngest pumped a nunchuck in the air.

Raphael thumped on top of the crane, dropping down and stealing back his sai and jerking the floundering man from the ruined controls. He hit the ground in front of his boss.

"Don't jus' stand there! Kill 'em! Kill 'em!"

No one moved for three whole seconds. I almost thought common sense would dictate the thugs would run. . . of course I was wrong.

Because the next second the building erupted with battle cries and profanity.

It erupted into chaos. . .

**Time: 10: 29 pm**

The two younger ninjas were a fair distance from me, well past the invisible boundary the crane set in the center of the warehouse. Raphael's sais flashed as he spun them, dispatching the blades into wooden weapons or overeager foes. He was holding his own well, considering the fact that at least a dozen gang members had their sights set on him.

Michaelangelo was flipping and spinning around enemies, landing strikes while barely avoiding them. The numbers of times I've lectured him for the flamboyance nature of his fighting style, I couldn't recall. Just to my left the second eldest was easily batting away any advancing foes, his bo quick and accurate within the deft embrace of his fingers.

A wooden bat sailed past my head, the unskilled hands of a young recruit failing to stop the weapon before it clashed against the ground _with a cracking thud_. His cheeks flushed red before he followed the momentum forward. I slammed my elbow into his back, busting his head onto the cement floor and rendering him unconscious.

My katanas danced through the air, kissing eager partners with the bright flash of sharp steel. The touches so bitting that all backed away from the deadly and beautiful twins. I used the opening to check all my brothers again and nearly lost my grip on my swords at what I saw. A young Dragon -with his baggy pants, torn shirt and spiky green hair- had his blunt bat raised behind the youngest's head. My tongue dried even as my mouth opened, throat forcing his name up.

Before either thing could fall, a flash of red shoved them back. Raphael lurched at the punk, knocking Mikey aside before crushing the boy's jaw with his coiled fist.

"Watch yer back, bonehead!"

I could hear the cheeky grin in the youngest's voice as he hollered back. "That's what you're for, bro."

My breath returned, the hated fear crawling back into the darkest corner of my mind. My foot slid back, body recoiling away from assailing air. The presence of a body touched the corner of my vision, I pivoted and drove a padded elbow into a soft gut._  
_

With every move I made, I couldn't shake the feeling that this battle was a mistake. The world seemed off, tilted on its axle, balanced on a blade, hung up by frayed thread. But I couldn't focus on the thought for long, in a battle hesitation and uncertainty can kill you. There can be no distractions.

The exception comes with being the leader. You always have an sense trained on your teams, no matter what it costs you; and in all our years of fighting together, I've learned my brothers' breaths from others; learned their howls for help; learned their pleas of pain. Those unique sounds could raise above even the loudest battle, because to my ears, they deafen all else.

. . .It was an inhale as sharp as my katana, one that stretched until it faltered in a slither of teeth and throaty growl. It was Raphael.

My sword slid from a Dragon's pipe and I ducked, pivoting back on one heel to roundhouse kick approaching enemies. Even as my blade connected to another weapon, my eyes searched wildly for my brother and my feet propelled me forwards as quick as the marsh of opponents would allow.

"Raph!" Mikey's voice. Nearby and shrilled. I could just make out his orange bandanna tail over colorful heads.

It couldn't have taken longer than five seconds to dispatch the horde around me, but it was long enough for Raph to hit the ground. His knee and arms shook beneath his weight, a bead of sweat glistened on his brow and his lips moved in a sting of curses. His other leg extended behind him, baring no burden besides something burnt orange, long and narrow protruding from right above his knee.

Michaelangelo hovered over him, one nunchuck tucked beneath his arm, the other limp in his hand as he grappled to grab a breathless Raph.

It couldn't have been longer than seven seconds, but it was long enough for a blue haired street punk to garner the courage to rush Mike.

And for the second time that night, with my youngest brother's name on my tongue, I saw Raphael pounce, shoving aside the orange-clad turtle and flattening the threat to the sound of cracking bone.

"I told ya to watch yer back!"

I skidded to a stop as my injured kin unsuccessfully tried to stand. "Mike, listen to him." the tautness of my tone had the youngest twilling his weapons again, ready to defend us.

I bent down, grabbing an emerald bicep to anchor his attention. "How deep?" my eyes scanned the wound, finding the long and narrow thing to be a rusty pipe.

The red-masked turtle pushed me off, and in one swift movement, reached back, gripped the pipe, and pulled it from his flesh before I could stop him. "Not deep enough." came the rasped reply.

From the blood that gushed over already paling skin, I knew my brother was wrong. I took a last, fleeting look at the steel rod—which was sharpened to a tip on the end, as if it had been broken in half for the sole purpose of impaling someone—and muttered a Japanese curse.

"Shell, we need to get you out of here."

"No."

"There's no arguing on this, come on." but his gaze was set off in the distance. I yanked him up, shouting for Mikey and Don.

Dread stuck me in the gut with the surprising sting of a sucker punch. A blue bandanna tail whipped with my head as I searched the teeming mass of filthy souls for a flash of purple. My grip pinched tighter on the sibling I held when I felt him falter, even tighter when another sweep didn't drudge up the missing member of my family.

"Leo!" I barely glanced Raph's way, already formulating a plan on how to get us all out of here alive while finding Donnie. "Are ya even—"

"Mikey, get Raphael out of here." blue eyes jostled from an downed enemy to me, before turning again to bounce a chuck off a collar bone and backing further towards me. "I'll find Donnie and meet up with you in the sewers. If I'm not there in five minutes, get Raph to the lair."

"I hear you, bro!" with another wild swing, he knocked back the last hearty foe and belted his weapons. He grabbed Raph and drew his reluctant arm over his shoulder.

"Leo, ya ain't listenin'."

"_You_ listen, go with Mikey and wait for us. No risks, remember? No playing the hero tonight. Now _go_."

I pivoted to rush into the crowd, katanas drawn and flashing at the hesitant Dragons, but a strong fingered grasp pulled me back. An emerald face contorted. Mike shifted his own hold around Raph's shell. "Wait."

"That's an _order._"

A low rumble, "Yer _order_ 's gonna get Donnie killed."

Dragons were closing in. "I don't have time for this." I growled.

But I guess, neither did Raphael. With an incapacitating jerk, he threw the youngest off balance and sent him crashing into a vulnerable heap on the floor. With my weapons occupying my hands, there was nothing I could do to stop him from bolting into the swarming mass of Purple Dragons.

"Raph!"

It was just good old turtle luck that the capable fallen members of the gang chose that moment to clamber to their feet and join their comrades in enclosing me and Mike—now that the dangerous one that wouldn't hesitate to kill was gone. Before my brother is even on his feet again, we're surrounded.

Our shells thumped against each other and I bore my teeth in a warning, one which went unheeded.

A chain whistled through the air, I craned back, stroking my katana blade to catch the deadly steel. Mike locked his arm in mine, and in one fluid motion, we spun; jerking the weapon from the thug and into two others.

Flesh cried with the sting of being shredded and I delivered a split kick to a raging foe and his suffering pal. A little way was cleared, and over the many bald or dyed heads, I saw Raph barreling past enemies with barely a limp. And a little further up, I caught the wooden flare of Don's bo.

My fist connected with a jaw, Mike whooped behind me.

"How are you doing, bro?" another enemy down.

"Dude, I'm the Battle Nexus champion! Nothing I can't handle."

It was then that I felt the vibration, a heavier stride that laced the ground with tremors and clattered my teeth deep within my skull. With a surge of deadly drive, I arched my katanas around, carving a wider circle between the horde and us.

Danger was heavy in the air.

A flash garnered my attention and I watched helplessly as the crane's massive load swung at my little brother—the realization that the previously unconscious operator must have come to once more had me kicking myself.

"Raph! Watch out!"

His battle scarred shell didn't slow. And in the span of time no slower than a blink, he had leaped. The box tilted dangerous to the right as my brother landed. As it bowed back around, I finally sighted Raphael's target. And worse yet, _his_ target: Don.

Hun was lumbering swiftly towards the battling and somehow oblivious genius; his fists were bright with brass. And in that instant, I understood why my bullheaded brother wouldn't leave.

In the following moments, two things happened that stole whatever control was left in this struggle; and nearly killed us all. With the crane's momentum beneath him, Raphael launched off the crate, over Don, and right into Hun's chest. Just as they were grappling—grappling towards a window, the crate swung back, slipping loose of the metal cords and hook and falling to the ground.

Dragons scrambled from the oncoming destruction, dropping weapons and piling over each other to escape.

Metal sheered against concrete, springing and splintering. Guns scattered. And the shredded steel pierced the air with a feral cry; and a propane tank with its sharp tip.

Time slowed. My fingers grabbed Mikey's wrist and jerked him to a collection of boxes. "Everyone get down!"

The narrow realm of the warehouse erupted in blazing heat and white light. The very air burned, seared across my skin and bombarded my ears with the sound of a thousand shrieking cries and drums beat with bloody palms. On instinct, I hugged my brother closer to my chest and sunk deeper within the haven of toppled packages.

It was over as soon as it began, but I didn't move until the smell of burning flesh struck me. I shoved up, brushing my skin over the heated containers that just saved our lives. With a hiss of rueful pain, I dragged Mike to his feet and gave him a quick once over.

There was no time to waste.

"You alright?" I whispered.

Wide eyes glanced to my feet then back up. "Yeah. I'm good, bro."

"Let's find the other."

I climbed from the dark depth of our hole. The air shimmered with licking flames and dust, steam rose from the floor in billowing puffs. Rubble was strewn everywhere, pieces of the ceiling gone, caved in to reveal the dark night sky; and what remained of the roof, looked ready to collapse.

I kicked aside rubble, eyes wandering the aftermath with horror expanding in my chest. Body parts and growing blood puddles littered themselves amongst the stone and fire.

"Donatello! Raphael!" a groan from above silenced my next call. "Shell." I muttered, turning to Mikey. He was scooped down, brushing debris away with his hand. "What do you have?"

A flash of steel answered the question. "Your blade, bro."

I took it from him, the blue leather handle charred black and rough on my skin. I hadn't realized I dropped it when I grabbed my brother. There wasn't time to sheath it.

"Help me find the others. And keep your voice down, the ceiling looks like its about to cave."

We picked our way over the destruction, passing human remains with sharp eyes. Behind me Michaelangelo gagged. At last, we slid down a large piece of downed roof and reached the last place I saw Donnie before the building went up.

"Don. Can you hear me?" I winced when another whine returned my query.

"Leo, over here!"

The youngest was sunk to his haunches, fingers flinging rubbish away; I joined him immediately. For a few, painstaking minutes the only sounds were thuds of rocks and clangs of metal sailing through the air and landing somewhere far away—and the whole time my attention was divided in half.

Then an olive hand flopped onto my foot, limp and scratched but otherwise unharmed; and my heart stopped in my chest, attention aimed fully at the finding of one thought lost. The debris was jerked away faster, with less care. Until an alcove was revealed, just a small dimple of space under a ton of crushing brick. And the saving grace? A metal ceiling beam, balanced between what could only be a piece of still standing wall, more metal crates and the crane's long neck.

Hands shaking against my will, I crawled within the dark recess and took my brother's cool shoulders. Carefully, I backtracked, until the abrasive surface scraped my lower legs and dust filled my lungs and sight.

"Donnie?" I coughed, setting his head down and quickly inspecting him for injuries. "Hey, can you hear me, bro?" I slapped his smut covered cheeks lightly, relieved when his eyes fluttered open.

Doe brown irises stared up at me. "Er, my head." he slurred.

"Raphie!" my own eyes snapped up at the plea, raking over the area until a sea green turtle invaded my focus. Dust rained down when the cry came again.

"Mike, if you keep yelling this whole place is going to come down." I hissed. "Help me with Don." He wavered, orange mask tail whipping over his shoulder as he searched for our missing brother—one who was most likely bleeding to death and probably not even in the warehouse. "_Now._ Mikey."

Don shoved himself up, hand on his head. "Can you stand?"

A nod and throaty hum was the only response I got. He stumbled upon his feet, nearly falling if not for the two pairs of hands that caught him. His arm snaked around Mike's neck. "Concussion." he muttered, all other words fading into a jumble of jabbering sounds.

"What about Raph? He took a nasty hit before the—"

"I'll find him. Right now take Donnie, get out of the building and wait for me at that manhole." I motioned to a completely demolished section of a wall, bright with moon light and free of most obstacles that a disoriented little brother might trip over. The youngest nodded before hobbling off. I turned away, eyes set on the blown out window where I last saw Raphael. "And Mike," I called back, already scrambling over a mound of rubble, "keep him awake!"

The wind and sheeting snow had turned to needles against my skin, without the protection of the burning warehouse, they scathed my flesh like acid rain and combusted colored crystal blobs before my eyes.

I squinted through the onslaught—one that was tinting itself black with the billowing smoke above—mildly surprised by how quickly the storm worsened, and madly descending into a pit of worry craze for my little brother.

This warehouse—or what was left of it—parried the sharp wind that sliced off the top of the briny, polluted sea; barely fifteen feet of wooden dock separated the forces. And on that snow blanketed wood, red dots trailed, far apart and quickly disappearing. I trudged after the liquid ruby path, my eyes focused on the edge of the dock, fighting through the disorientation to make out what existed there.

And then it hit me. Every nerve shook with a shiver not from the cold and I sprinted to the dancing black water. The brown planks were broken at least a foot in, rounding into a gaping half moon hole. And caught on the jagged splinters at the very end? A piece of fabric. . . Raphael's belt.

The river was restless, a black mirror rippling with a snaring rage that reflected the many evils that swirled around it. It was daunting. It flaunted its power to kill every dumb, unlucky or otherwise suicidal creature; it mocked my cowardice with its wavy smile and swelling laugh; it dared me to be its next victim, for my brother was already in its vindictive grasp.

And for that simple fact, the split second of hesitation was all the time it took me to act.

The glass shattered around me with a deafening roar, then the fragments swelled, consuming every corner of my world. The shards pierced me like the tips of frozen blades, arching through my blood and skin and into my very bones. Confusion and panic warred warred for control over my limbs; instincts defeated both. I dispatched my body down, eyes useless in searching the darkness for my brother. What guided me was an impulse. A pull that I couldn't fight. Now, I realize how that pull was nothing more than a current, nothing supernatural about it.**  
**

My skin grazed another's. Fingers found a limp limb. I curled my grip tight, anchoring us together. My arm snaked around a carapace. . . around my seemingly unconscious brother.

I swam to the surface as fast as I could, breaking through the heavy ice tumbled water with a gasp. Air filled my lungs and my teeth chattered against my will. Against my chest, Raphael's head lolled limply, lifelessly. . .

"Raph. Come on, bro, wake up." the water fought me as I glided towards the still burning warehouse.

It took every bit of strength in my icy muscles to haul both of us back onto the safety of the docks. I grunted from the exertion, then I was dragging my brother through the snow; laying him on his shell; placing my ear to his chest; over his mouth. Listening. Listening for a thud of a heart beat, the rasp of a breath. Two things that never came.

My body acted on instinct, following Don's calm voice in the back of my mind as he issued brazen instructions on CPR. My hands were numb as I tilted his head back. My mind dipping into a realm of uncertainty as the seconds passed. My lips pressing over his, breathing, forcing air down his lungs; pounding on his still chest. Willing him to live.

I couldn't lose a brother. Not like this.

Panic rose from the doubtful soil, suffocating any rational response as my motions continued to yield no change to Raphael.

In the moments when my sanity was cracking, I remembered the words of Donnie months ago.

___Focus on the numbers._

Never about the life. You can't be attached to the patient, can't think about holding a life in your hands. Instead, focus on the steps. The number of breaths, stitches, pulses. . . people depending on you. Anything.

So I did. . .

Until the number of minutes Raphael must have been underwater for scratched out the others. Ten, at least. From the time of the explosion, searching for Don. . . maybe more.

_"__Come on, Raph! __Don't do this to me.__"_

My fist came down on his chest one last time, desperation lending strength to the blow. And his back arched off the ground, coughing up water in a tide; breathing again. Lids fluttered and I exhaled, winded and relieved. I grabbed his shell and pulled him into a seated position, watching white clouds puff out with a lungful of liquid.

Sirens were in the distance. Demanding a retreat,

"You are such an idiot, you know that?" I touched our heads together, an old show of affection from the days of our youth. Just as quickly, however, he shoved me away.

"Got. . . ta. . . go. . . fearless." his eyes drooped low, shoulders slumped forwards, breaths grating out. I've never seen him so pale.

"Can you stand?" no answer. "Raph!" I shook him hard, already sliding his arm around me for support.

An emerald chin lifted and fell.

A bout of clarity struck me in the gut and my eyes fell to my brother's leg. Scarlet rivulets burned through the snow, swept out like the mouth of a river into silted sand. The flow was weaker than before, congealed from the icy river water by my best guess. It probably saved his life, the near drowning a blessing in disguise.

Still, time was ticking.

My fingers were deft as I stole his red mask and ripped away my own, tying them together before noosing the wound as tightly as the numbness would allow. He inhaled and pinched my arm, swallowing the obvious pain with a muffled cuss.

Well, at least he's awake.

I coaxed him up, taking the blunt of his weight on myself. Half dragging, half carrying him towards the sewer lid and praying that my other brothers were waiting there. Safe.

I stepped around the short alley-like way, a swaying shadow materializing into the stout form of Mikey. His voice echoed down, words strung together too closely for meaning to register, though Don hummed his understanding from his place against the wall.

"Leo!"

"I'm here, Mike. We don't have much time, he lost a lot of blood."

**Date: January 20; Time: 11: 13 am**

The room was silent, cottoned with the smell of antiseptic and dried blood. I held my peace in a metal chair, trying for meditation but only incurring round after round of chaos; the events of the night before set on loop behind my lids.

I tightened my fists in my lap, remembering the slurred words of Donatello instructing me on the steps of a blood transfusion. Stitches and disinfection. Some 13 hours later and Raphael still laid unconscious on the infirmary bed, a second bag of blood dripping into his veins.

And I could only wonder if I did something wrong.

A muffled groan split the silence. I opened my eyes to amber slits peering around the room, glassy and unreasonably suspicious. They gazed over me with indifference, then dropped to the needle in his arm.

Fire flashed behind those golden eyes, dark fingers curving into the white sheets.

"Raph?"

He shifted, prying his arm off the bed and stretching to remove the needle.

"Hey," I reached forwards, catching his hand from the blood supply, "Don't touch that." Two blinks, and he was staring at me as if just now realizing my presence. Worry swelled up again. "How do you feel?"

". . . Fine. Fine, Fearless. Wh—Where's Donnie?"

I leveled a firm look at him, one he held without a flutter of doubt for his statement. I sank back into the metal chair, relenting. "In the living room. He has a concussion, but Mike's keeping him awake. He'll be okay."

He hummed a throaty response, lifting his stare to the ceiling. "Mike's alright?"

"Yes. . ." I could have left it at that single word, Raphael looked ready to slip back into the realm of blissful unconsciousness, but he nearly got himself killed. . . nearly got _all_ of us killed.

"Why do you always do this?"

An eyebrow raised with little interest. I pushed on. "Why do you always have to play the hero? You know you nearly drowned last night?"

A scoff. "Yeah. . . no big deal there, Fearless."

"No big deal?!" I clamped a hand over my jaw, willing my ire to settle, my tone to calm; fighting about things with Raphael never work. "What about blowing the warehouse up? Is that a 'big deal' then? Or how about nearly blowing _us_ up? Does that faze you, hothead?"

He shoved himself up, bracing for a fraction of a second as undeniable nauseous rocked him. His voice, however, was steady. "Damn it, Leo. We're all alive ain't we? Jus leave it at that."

"No. People died last night, Raph."

"Street scum. Killers. Drug dealers. Weapon dealers. _Purple_ _Dragons._ Shell, Leo those people got what they _deserved. _Ya ain't getting any sympathy from me. Far as I'm concerned, we jus did this city a friggin' favor."

I pinched between my eyes, "That isn't right. You aren't the judge of those people, and neither am I—"

"I ain't sittin' here and listin' to this crap."

Raphael jerked the IV out and slid off the bed. As soon as his feet hit the ground, his knees buckled; I lurched, catching him around the waist in the nick of time.

"Raph, lay down." he shoved me off.

"I said I'm _fine_." he growled. "Now back off."

He limped past me, ripping his arm away from my touch. And before another futile grab could be made, he was out the door and drunkenly making his way to his room. I grated my teeth together and watched him ascend the steps, silently cursing every ounce of stubbornness sloshing in the hothead's veins. And my own anger, swallowing that down even though it was screaming for me to hit something.

His door slammed, the bang echoing through the lair and inside my skull. This couldn't go on, I decided, this recklessness. The next time, I knew, I might not be fast enough, I might lose him. Something had to be done. . . before it was too late. And every nerve in my body was screaming that time was running out.

That he was slipping right through my fingers. That his life was dangling by a thread.

Turns out. . . I was right.

* * *

**A/N: Well, there you have it. Now I PROMISE the next chapter will put the mystery of Raphael's fate to rest. . . one way or another. And since I love all of my readers, silent or otherwise, I've decided to tell all of you that the next chapter of NIU is called. . . In The Hollows, Where No Light Spills.  
**

**Oh wow, so many interpretations, possibilities, etc. ;)  
**

**So thoughts, feelings, predictions, rants, reviews. . . I'd love to hear what y'all think! Like, for one, does something feel like its missing from this? IDK, maybe its just the coffee, but I think I forgot something in this chapter. . . o.O  
**

**Wish me luck on Nano!?  
**

**God bless and Cheers! your red writing rebel.  
**

**Oh, and I know it's really late and all, but. . . HAPPY HALLOWEEN! muhahahhahahhahahaha. . . . (psycho laughter fades into silence) ;)  
**


	7. C6: In The Hollows, Where No Light Spill

**Disclaimer: Wherefore art thou, my dearest turtles? For thee surely be not in my possession.**

**A/N: Well, I don't know about them, but... I'm back! Whoop! A newly crowned NaNoWriMo victor, no less... *sigh* Feels _so_ good.  
**

**Don't worry, I'm not going to say much. But I would like to, of course, thank you all for the reviews! And I am really _really_ sorry for the huge wait, writer's block strikes at the worst of times (and lingers and inhibits and annoys and steals my sleep). ^_^' Also, I recently beta-ed my first ever fic. Laredoni's _Reassurance. _ If you'd like to check it out there is a link in my profile.****  
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**Also, if you have a TMNT fic that needs a beta I'd be super happy to do it. Just PM me the request! ^_^  
**

**Now Enjoy!  
**

_Goal: Got lost somewhere in my notes..._

_Word count: 3070 (yep, a really short one...)_

* * *

**_Chapter Six_**

**_In the Hollows, Where No Light Spill_**

**Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown**

It's dark. A thick, inky blackness that ripples like sludgy water in a rain storm. It's suffocating, filling my lungs as I breathe in and not leaving even as I exhale; instead it seeps into every recess of my being. It feels like lead replacing my blood.

The smell is of antiseptic and copper and something else. . . something that is not so much tangible as it is a stroke of the conscious. A deep _feeling_ that I can only name as... as... despair.

Yes, that's it. Despair. So heavy in the impenetrable shadows that I can _taste_ it. A mixture of bile and blood and desert sand. I try to lick the sensation from my lips, draw a bit of moisture in from the sea around me. But my tongue won't move, my lips won't part. It doesn't matter anyways, because it isn't actually water.

No. But I wish it were.

I grapple to hear, to catch another's breath or the sound of steps. _Anything._ Anything at all to tell me I'm not alone in this light-less world. I listen deeper, straining against the mucky walls that seem to blotch out all sound. There is nothing for so long... Then it comes with a suddenness that hurts: a raspy breath. My own hitches in my throat as I struggle to catch it again. Terror overwhelming me when it doesn't come.

Realization dawns on me. Everything within my reach is me; everything I see or hear or smell is _me. _There are no others. I am alone.

Utterly alone.

And decidedly confused. Things are so muddled. Broken. Lost. I have no idea of where I am; no idea of what is happening—or what _happened_; no idea what I should do. No idea of who I am.

_Of who I am. . .?_

That can't be right. My mind wanders, seeking out some horde of memories, of knowledge. It comes back as barren as it left. And there's something about the emptiness that fills me with fear.

I search for feeling beyond the immobile realm of sensations I've found myself in; for the cords of muscles or stings of nerves. For an outside connection so I can _move._ So I can know if I am even _alive_ or if this is the rest of my existence. Blackness. Stillness. Helplessness.

Panic crawls into my throat the longer I dig, slowly overriding my need to have control and forcing me utterly still and utterly mute in my mind.

_Breathe._

A voice I swear is not mine tells me; a voice I find myself unable to disobey. The calm whisper comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once, so quiet and echoing in the emptiness that I pause to second guess my being all alone. Or all dead.

And really, the only way to get the answers I need is to open my eyes. Something I don't want to do. Something I don't think I can do.

_You can._

I blanch at the soft encouragement and wonder if I might be insane. Wonder if that wispy thought is the last bit of my sanity struggling for control, or just a product of a broken mind filled with voices. And maybe I am crazy, because I listen again. I obey this bodiless voice like a dependent child.

My eyelids are heavy, weighed down by disorder and glued shut by time. They flutter in waning defiance, bright spots searing beyond their protection and bursting into a fiery pain in my skull. I squeeze them shut once more, hating that numbness is the only thing barring out the pain. And at this point I honestly don't know which is worse.

In the end, I suffer for my need for awareness and slowly pry my eyes open. Everything is a disoriented fog of colors and undefined shapes. Stark whites, shiny grays, and cobalt blues and blacks. The clustered heap of my surroundings brings overwhelming relief; I blink long and slow to calm my suddenly rushed breaths.

With each blink things become clearer. The stark whites pan from the high ceiling to the distant walls; darkly hued machines I can't name are scattered around the room; a metal table sits a few feet away, polished tools with sharp tips are neatly aligned over the surface. And I realize that the 'ripples' in the ink is actually from a flickering bare bulb above me. I squint at it, my solace melting under its dim glow. I force a swallow and sweep my gaze around the room with a dull sort of fascination. When I pause on the metal table again, that fascination turns to alarm.

I feel for my arms, glancing down the length of my body to make sure I even have the limbs intact. Emerald green skin shimmers with a thin layer of sweat, dull steel bands binding down wrists and ankles, strips of pinkish white gauze scattered and twined around what must be wounds. Many, many wounds.

And I wonder if I'm someone's lab rat.

I grope for a handle on my body, for the strings controlling this puppet I've found myself in. And ever so slowly, fingers curl into the metal table beneath me; I feel the biting cold of the air, the sting of the metallic board and cuffs on flesh. A shiver jolts me and I bare my teeth, mouth numb and heavy, but very much in my control. It's a small victory.

As maladroit as an infant, I twist my hands around, crafting claws and upturned palms. With a deep inhale, I tug. Burning lead lights my veins and scorch my muscles. I wither against the pain, a whine sliding past my nose.

_Trapped._ I blink hard, warring with the bonds and only succeeding in scuffing my skin raw; beads of wet rubies embroidering the callous, uncaring gray.

"Do not struggle, child."

My crusade for freedom falls limp to the unfamiliar, accented voice; I swallow past the growing lump in my throat and vainly tilt my head to the side in search of this new presence.

A shadow sprawls across the white floor. A long reaching darkness that flickers with the bulb and dances with my stubbornly swimming vision.

"Wh—" I choke on the near mute sound, desiccated vocal cords stamping down my first attempt to speak. And with the accompanying pain, I don't know if I want to try again. Antiseptic coats my tongue—a bitter, almost soapy taste—and I cough.

"Wh—where 'm I?" the words feel stale and weak on my lips.

With a soft, slow gait the shadow moves forwards, "Where you belong." the tone is thoughtful, kind even.

Lies. Must be.

And suddenly, there he is. A tall, pale man, dressed in white with gloved hands clasped before him. For a moment that's all I can make out, then he takes another step forwards, a slight limp in one leg setting him crooked. He leans over me, blocking out the light with his stoic face. His nose is bent, upturned and to the side, wire framed glasses perch at the end.

I blink against the harsh glare given by the round cuts of glass and drag my gaze up. His thinning gray hair catches the light, specks of fading black stark with all the brightness.

Dizziness rolls over me and I shuts my eyes against the sour taste washing over my tongue. I gag on a moan, coughing and choking; straining against my binds and suffocating to the pressure on my lungs. And I think I really might throw up.

"Oh, dear boy, _breathe_. It isn't that arduous."

Something cold graze my lips; wetness trickles down my parched throat. The sensation is too good to pull away from, soothing away the burn until it's nothing more than a dull throb. The noose around my lungs eases with each desperate swallow.

I pant as soon as the cup is drawn away, sucking in dry air and wishing it was water. With one last cough, I open my eyes.

The man crouches by the small table, his back to me. "You're a sick thing, aren't you?" he muses, finger tapping off the metal.

I wonder how he means it. I feel like crap, but. . . "Am—'m I?"

He doesn't spare me a glance, "Oh yes, quite ill indeed." He straightens up, dropping a cloth in a trash bin nearby. "But don't pay too much heed to it, if you managed to survive the fall you did, you can outlast a case of pneumonia." his laugh is flat. "What is truly remarkable is the lack of damage you've taken. Broken bones are to be expected, but beyond any reason I can fathom, your exterior held up rather well to the impact—we might have to gift that to your shell, remarkable piece of anatomy, it is. And the internal injuries. . ." his head tilts back, and I wonder what his face must look like. "Well, those should have killed you. Yet, here you are."

I try to process this information, drudge up some memories. But all I get is more black static and white noise. Swallowing is painful, the little relief the water gifted now gone. "Fall?" I force out between gritted teeth, tugging once on the cuffs to get his attention.

Steely eyes turn my way. "They told me you could talk. . ." he says, so slowly that I can see him piecing things together. And his accent finally meets a name: German. Ever so slight, old and worn. "Aw, forgive me, dear boy, but I was expecting something a bit more. . . how shall I say this? Intelligent."

Now I frown.

"Verbally apt?" he tries again, finger on his chin. "No? Smart, then?"

My brow fall. And I realize he's calling me stupid. Heat creeps up my neck, "No." I rasp, fists clenching. "No, I—th—" I drop my head against the hard table, completely lost. Tired "Who. . . _who __are you?"_

"Aw, you're an angry one!" he claps his hands once, delectation lighting his face with a splintered madness. It flattens the next second. "Where are my manners? My sincere apologies, my name is Doctor Lewis Dombrovski. And you? I am quite eager to learn it. . ."

I blink at his exuberance; blink again when I realize I have no recollection of what the hell my name _is._

"Come now, don't be shy, we are all friends here."

"I. . ." I swallow hard, forcing my eyes away from his strange face. "I don't. . ." my tongue pauses, mind skipping back in something other than a search. But what ever is trying to be recalled, just can't be. "I don't know."

There's a long moment of silence, then the crack of dry lips curving up. Doubt the sound is just my imagination. "Well, what a useful development this is. Do you remember _anything_?" he asks, and I return my gaze to him.

The doctor's fractured smile grows and his face leans closer to me, steely eyes piercing into mine. "Dear boy," he mutters low, "eyes are said to be the windows to the soul, and yours are as blank as freshly manufactured paper at the moment."

His own eyes glisten with a madness, overflow with a drunken glee. In them, I can almost see anticipation. He skips back a step, straightening his glasses with a bent pinkie.

"Are you a curious soul, child?"

My veins are pulsing with a heat I can't explain, fingers curling into the table and wanting to snuff the question out of existence. "I wouldn't rememb'a." it comes out as a growl, weak as it is.

"Well, I most certainly am." he says, not missing a beat. "You see, I am a scientist by nature. Yet, I regard myself more as a doctor."

His lip twitches, sadly, his hands smoothing down a wrinkle in his pressed lab coat. "When I was but a boy—no older than yourself—a monster haunted my family for months, and when finally it left," he runs a finger over the table top, "it took with it the life of my dear mother."

My blood runs cold, a shiver lacing my spine. I don't understand why.

"It is not what you think, not something of your nature. But rather, the monster I speak of is one which I believe lives in us all. To state it broadly, diseases which inflict the muscles; and all my life I've been working to rid the world of their existence."

"What does... that hafta do with me?" I say, finding my lids heavier than before, and my lungs tighter.

The Doctor pulls his finger up, examining it in the flickering light. "Aw," he tilts his head, casting a strangely proud smile at me. "You see, I am correct once more! You and I share a common curiosity. Good friends... yes, I'm quite sure of it, child."

_No way in hell..._

He pace towards me, dragging the table behind himself. The wheels whine, the sound like a hundred needles piercing my ears, rattling my skull.

"As I said," he continues, bitterness seeping into his calm voice. "I've searched all my life for a cure, yet, like so many others, I've not found it. What we've come to understand and what we can do with that knowledge are two entirely different things. Then, you see, there are the confines of our society, what is deemed acceptable practice, yes?"

We stare at each other, his eyes expectant and eager. I'm not about to agree with a damn word he says.

So he turns away, realigning the sharp instruments with shaky fingers. "I would think you'd agree, given your nature and the natures of others toward you. But to answer your question, my greatest leaps have been with the DNA of abominations, things which are not meant to exist in our world. Creatures like yourself."

He lifts a scalpel, twisting it in his fingers with dull interest. I fist my fingers, hating the ice that congeals my blood, hating the coldness of this room. Hating the sly and sympathetic smile that raises the doctor's lips as I fail to fight back a shiver.

"The advances I've made in my research achieved two things, the first locked me up in an... how shall I say this... an... an _asylum_ for months. My former colleagues believed me insane, and the State agreed."

He shrugs, shoulder stiff and lower than the other. "Then there is my employer... he took a great interest in my work and orchestrated my release from such cruel confinement and mental deprivation. That was nearly a year ago, and I've not heard from him since his kind act until just a few weeks ago. I take it now, that you are what brought his attention back to me."

Metal sings against metal as he taps the small knife near my elbow. I wince, my head throbbing.

"He wishes me to study you and advance my work with what I might discover, and in return, I am to assist in a project of his."

I wait for more words, for some useful information. But the _doctor_ doesn't offer any.

"That it?" I spit past a clenched jaw. I don't know what else to say—No, I don't want to _say_ anything. I want to act. I want to move. I want to wipe the smile from those cracked lips, the ones that can lie so smoothly, so cruelly. He's _enjoying_ this.

"That which is relevant and I am free to tell."

I drag my eyes away from him, away from the scalpel hovering inches from my sweaty skin. The room spins with each sweep I take, my vision a blur of colors and shapes. I feel like I'm underwater, pressed down and trapped by thick glass and a never ending current of salty water.

Every nerve is on fire, every muscle stretched to the consistency of thread. The pain awakens me and I turn to tell this doctorthat he's nuts.

But he speaks first. "You have nothing to fear from me." he says, placing the knife down. "Another scientist might regard you as an animal, or a _monster_, and treat you as such; but to me, you are nothing more than a child."

"Fear?" It's a bitter laugh—there's so much to laugh at in that sentence—half a growl. I tug on my restraints, rolling my wrists in a desperate need to _act_. "Yer crazy if ya think ya sca—"

"_Nor_ can you hide such feelings with anger." he interrupts. "I am not one who is easily deceived by such natures."

"Yer a crazy asshole..." I mutter, both surprised and pleased by the ease of the word.

An exhausted gust of air slips pass his lips. He shakes his head and turns towards the small table. "Such a disappointing development, child. No respect... I simply cannot tolerate that."

He lifts a small vial with clear liquid inside and plunges a needle into the cap. The glass chamber fills and the doctor taps the needle twice. He smiles at me, adjusting his slipping wire frames again.

"Something to help you sleep. Perhaps you will be more rational afterwards?"

I bare my teeth as he sets the sharp tip against my vein. His fingers are cold through his thin latex gloves. I stiffen, jerking back from the chill. Instead my left shoulder catches fire, pain erupting and seeping into my back and down my arm.

I can't catch the gasp, or silence the whine. The doctor pushes the needle in and pats my burning shoulder. My muscles relax instantly, lids grow heavy. I blink... suddenly so tired.

"I most certainly hope so," someone chuckles. Something squeezes my arm before it goes completely numb. "You see, there is someone I'd like you to meet, a business associate, you might call him."

My eyes close, stubborn and against my will.

"...And I'm sure my employer will be sending someone to check on the progress of the experiment..."

The words taper off with my slowing thoughts.

"We mustn't disappoint, dear boy."

_You aren't good enough..._

_Ain't good enough._

_Never been—_

"We really must begin... soon."

Darkness sweeps in, washing away all the sound, all the whispers and voices I can't recognize. And nothing else matters except the oblivion.

In the hollows, where no light spill, where reality can't reach... where I can't escape.

* * *

**A/N: *Wipe sweaty palms on pants* This had me stressed now, for like... _months._ I think I might be a little paranoid, because I tend to sorta dislike OC's and the fics they inhabit, (no offense to anyone! It's just my weirdness) so I've been worried that Lewis might be a turn off to some of you who feel the same way. :/  
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**Why did I put him in then? Well that's easy! To be a hypocrite. LOL, JK. Little backstory here: He's actually the _whole_ reason for NIU coming into existence. The idea spawned from his creation. And his being German... well, let's just say I have German ancestry in my family, plus I've _always _been interested in the language... so he came from that side of my brain; has occupied it for nearly two years now. Pretty cool, really. ha ha. **

**Anyway... any thoughts on Lewis? Does he creep ya out? Anger/fascinate/horrify/sadden/disappoint? I didn't accent his dialogue cause I found it a bit difficult to read, should I accent it a little? I really hope you'll continue reading NIU; and thank you to all who have stuck with me. The next chapter is called: Where Innocence Dies.  
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**Thanks for reading! ^_^ Happy New Year!  
**

**Cheers! your red writing rebel.  
**


	8. Chapter seven: Where Innocence Dies

**Disclaimer: Well, Doctor Lewis Dombrovski is entirely mine... I just can't say the same about the turtles. **

**A/N: It lives, my friends! It lives. ^_^**

**Yeah, yikes. Sorry about the ridiculously long wait y'all. I won't bore with the details of too-busy life, a stubborn muse, or the spur of the moment decision to change a mega plot piece while writing this chapter (nothing which affects anything already written). And y'all already know how much I truly do appreciate all of the kind reviews. *hugs***

**So there's nothing else to say, except, I hope you enjoy chapter 7: Where innocence Dies**

_Word count: 6041_

_Exercise Goal: Paralleling Plots: Balance both sides of the plot_

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_**Chapter Seven**_

_**Where Innocence Dies**_

**Date: February 13; Time: 5:14 PM. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . POV: April**

The sound has been a constant companion since I've stepped through the door; never ending no matter how late it becomes, or how long it stretches. Tapping. The depression of keys under deft and desperate fingers.

I stare down at the mug in my hand, shifting it in the dull light and catching specks of grounded beans that had slipped past the overflowing filter. Perfect timing for the coffeemaker to break. But I could do better than this—I _should _do better than this.

Be more of a help...

With a sigh, I shove the shame aside and knock on the splintered wood door. The tapping doesn't stop, but there's a loud hum of invitation. I push my way inside, ignoring the loose strands of scarlet hair that spill into my sight.

The room is a flood of shadows, sweeping over the mountains of papers and files, over the pinned up maps, the too full trash can. Deep circles stretch beneath the too wide eyes of a young face, olive skin tinged yellow with the illuminative glow of a computer screen.

"Donnie?" my voice is too loud in the quiet. The cup clattering as I set it down on his cluttered desk.

Without answering, he pushes away from his computer, spins in his chair and picks up a pen. The tapping starts again, only to a different tone, grating across paper. When he spins back, his eyes find me, bloodshot and blinking. "Thanks, April."

Black words shine against the blunt white screen of Don's computer, grabbing his attention and mine. I clasp my hands before me, thumbs grazing my growing belly. "Any luck?" I ask, because it's all I can think of.

He palms papers aside, head shaking. "No. There's nothing—" he stops himself, pinching his eyes and wrinkling his purple mask. "Not yet." he exhales.

I swallow, suddenly sorry I asked. I look to the many maps, to the messy scrawl and red inked circles. I touch Donatello's shoulder, giving it a hopeful squeeze when he doesn't move away.

"We'll find him, Donnie." I glance back at the maps. "It looks like you've made a lot of progress since the last time I was down here."

He hums deep in his throat. "Not exactly. That map outlines _all_ Foot activity that I have record of. I'm trying to distinguish a perimeter, pinpoint the largest areas of accumulation."

"Nothing recent?"

Don coddles the mug of coffee, attempting to hide a tensing fist beneath the swamp green handle. "No. It's like they just disappeared..." he mutters, fingers unclenching to rub his eyes. "No Foot, no Purple Dragons. Just dead ends. I'm running out of ideas, April."

My heart is grasped by a barren chill, identical to the one that shook me eleven days ago as I held a phone to my ear. It hurts. Floods me with an intangible pain until numbness sweeps in and stills the trembling of my fingers.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Before the question can be answered, there's a knock and the door swings open.

"Donnie, it's almost nightfall." Mikey glances at me, forces a smile that feels more like a slap. "Oh, hey April."

I mimic his expression, failing at the art of words under his too innocent gaze. Under the self told lies that pin optimism to his face, when all it wants to do is fall. It's only when his baby blue eyes find a new target that I'm able to breathe.

"Tell Leo I'm coming." Don answers, standing up with a stiff stretch.

With a final glance my way, Mike retreats out the door. It's not much, but that's the most interaction we've had since his brother disappeared. The thought is a stone, jagged and weighted by a pain too close to my heart, by memories too vivid in my head. I swallow uneasily, forcing emotions back down. The least I can do for the guys is stay strong...

"Take care of yourself."

Donnie's voice rattles me from my resolving, his hands wrapping a map closed, but those doe brown eyes are on my face. The look melts the edges from my anxiety, but only renews my guilt. My _need_ to do more. "Of course," I brush my hair back, needing a distraction to wrap myself in, a curtain to hide my restlessness.

I've been here for hours, roaming the lair with a quiet intent building within me. And every time enough was gathered and I found the courage to knock on the lab door, a full cup held like a shield before me as I crossed the threshold, it would all slip away. Lost with the maps and red markers. With the tapping of keys. With a single look at my friend hunched over a glowing screen.

Too many times to count, and this is my last chance of the night.

I muster all my resolves, stack them on top of each other until they spill from my tongue in a crazed rush.

"But what can I do for you?"

Donnie empties the mug of coffee in three quick gulps, zipping his bag up and hefting it over one shoulder. "April—"

"You guys are my family. I want to help, Don. Please."

"There's..." he hesitates, fingers straightening papers. "Still a lot of mapping left to finish?"

I want to smile. But the feeling of how wrong that would be when Raph is missing stomps it into oblivion.

"The data is all on that hard drive." he points, but the cable snaking from its metal end into the computer is indicator enough. "Red marker is for anything older than six months; anything younger than that is marked with the green."

"Great, anything else?"

He collapses into his swiveling chair. "I hate to ask you this..." his exhale is shaky, like a thousand pent up breaths all rushing out at once. "Could you... keep an eye on Master Splinter while we're gone?"

The request throws me. I blink, shifting through the little time I've spent with the aged rat since Raphael disappeared.

"Why? What's wrong with Splinter?"

Just as my last word falls, the door swings open without a single knock sounding, interrupting our conversation for the second time. Whatever the response, it dies on Don's tongue as Leo strides in.

His demeanor is a mask of calm; Collected control—his voice much the same. "Donatello, what's taking so long? You know we have a lot of ground to cover."

For a long second, the elder brothers lock eyes, narrow and fierce—they say more than any words ever could. And it's been like this since _that_ _night_. The overlooked fallout of an already disastrous situation.

"It's my fault, Leo." I interject, stepping between the two. "Donnie was just showing me his mapping system." The eldest nods, accepting the excuse. And I look to my purple banded friend. "You should go, I can handle things down here."

Together they walk from the room, Don pausing just long enough to throw a look back at me. Then they cross the threshold, tumbling into voices that are so full of fake animation that I'm reminded of a bad soap. Mikey never had such a hard time pretending, of slipping into the role of the optimist. It's just him.

Casey smiles at me from my lab door perch, his hockey mask casting long shadows over already tired eyes.

"See ya, Babe." he mouths, walking sideways.

"Be careful!" I call to the group, just as they're shutout by the lair door.

I'm left staring after them, realizing in a jolt of crystallized lucidity where this unfamiliar unease is spawning from. Not for the fact that Raphael is missing, at least, not completely. But Donatello. The way he's been acting so... detached. So much like... like. Like he's in 'Doctor Don' mode. Tending to the wounded.

_But no one's injured here, not now._

At least, not physically.

I shake my head, turning back to finish the mapping. But I'm stopped by the sight of Master Splinter, cane in hand as he watch the entrance. And I realize, in that instant, that maybe Donnie _is_ tending to wounds. That he's trying to patch up the gaping hole in this place now, in this family.

Only he can't.

Because losing a child. Losing _your_ _child_...

I cup my stomach, staring down at the bump that has slowly been growing for some fifteen weeks.

…that hole is too big for anything to fill.

**Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown**

I woke up to the same darkness, to the same emptiness, to the same numbness as I did before. Awareness came in waves of dry sand and pangs of pain. Emerging from the Hollows for the second time was as hard as the first, and any sense of time just as scattered. Minutes or hours of confusion finally broke to cracked lids and a simple thought:

Doctor Lewis Dombrovski is either really stupid, or frigging crazy.

And I've repeated it a thousand times since then. Repeat it so fast and so frequent that it runs over itself, echoing within my skull. I strain to hear it said aloud. To form it on my think tongue and stuff it into the silent void. But what ever Doc drugged me with is still heavy in my blood.

I'm laying on my side, staring at my fingers. At my _free_ hands and wrists wrapped in layers of white and laying limply before me. All my concentration is focused on wrapping them into fists. I've never wanted to move so badly before. The ache for it is a noose around my heart, cotton in my lungs.

I don't like feeling helpless...

The light flickers, shadows flashing across the dull table and drawing my eyes shut. In the deeper darkness I imagine control. See my fists raised and ready, strong and useful; slamming one into Doc's sly smile. Into any enemy who steps between me and escape.

The first pull of muscle sends a cascade of liquid fire streaming in its wake. Awareness shakes me with the heat and my eyes slide open, wide and anxious. The fingers curl into a loose fist, and my lips follow suit.

_Damn Stupid,_ are probably the best words for him.

As time stretches on I find the strings to my body and what each one does. Almost every one hurts to pull, but I do anyway. I twist my palm into the table top, press my elbow beneath me. My other hand finds my side, latching into the soft flesh as I push myself up. By the time I'm sitting, my breaths are thin rasps.

_Just make it to your feet..._

Yeah, like _that_ will be the hardest part. I grit my teeth, swinging my legs over the cold edge. Everything spins and I suck in a breath. Pinch my eyes shut when the motion doesn't stop.

Blink.

_Breathe._

Blink.

In... Blink... Out...

My foot touch the floor, a rush of ice rattling my very bones. A harsh swallow and I push off. My knees buckle; vision swims, sinks into blackness. With a clash, my elbow slams into the table, shoulder shrieking into my ears. My good hand shoots out, searching for another handle. It catches the edge of the wheeled stand. Tilting, tilting, tilting it until sharp tipped tools rain down. They clatter around me, too loudly. Pain lace up my leg, a sudden pressure stamping new bruises into my skin.

"Dam_mit_."

Nauseas crawls up my throat, choking the word halfway out. I'm paralyzed by tremors of cold and coughs, stuck as a heap on the ground as everything spins and sways, as the world floats from solids to untouchable fogs. When the anguish lessens, I take in my surroundings. Needles glisten around me, the tips long and fat—I bat them away, watch them skitter across the stark white and pass shiny scalpels like hunted rats. I shove the table off of me, barely glancing at the dark blotches covering my legs. Bruised, but not broken.

What's broken are my ribs; and, if it wasn't before, my shoulder. I hug my useless arm into my side, deciding that working one handed is better than blacking out.

I grope for the small knives and other surgical tools before hauling myself to my feet. I can bare little weight on my right leg. My vision is narrowed to a pin as I search for a way out. For a vent, a window, a loose ceiling panel; but there's only a metal door: tall and gray, every part of it metal.

Locked, no doubt.

But at least it hasn't opened yet. I repeat the thought, hope licking at my conscious like a newly kindled fire: _Maybe there's no one here... _In this elaborate compound, in this loon's basement. In whatever it might be.

I step forwards, limping in my halting and unsteady journey to the steel door. It's less than fifteen feet away, but by the time my palm smacks against the nearest wall, I feel like I've raced across the desert.

I transfer the sharp tools to my bad hand and snatch the narrow handle with the other. It remains unmoving, no matter how much weight I use. I cuss, dropping to one knee.

The key hole stares me down, as unimpressive as any average household lock. I swallow the urge to laugh. All that talk about his business associates and his employer—this is either a damn basement Doc tricked out, or a room in an abandoned health clinic, mental institution, or the likes. He's a liar.

_I can take Doc_. Drugged and wounded... a middle aged man with a limp and shaky hands isn't going to keep me from freedom. I just have to open this door...

The light flickers again, throwing my shadow around. In my grasp, the knives glisten. I find the smallest blade, twirling it stiffly before I stab it in the hole. My hand shakes, slips. I can't hear anything pass the blood in my ears. But the ding as the scalpel meets the floor is deafening.

_Concentrate._

I blink hard at the scolding tone, set my teeth on edge and try again. My body aches from the way I crouch, and my arm trembles from the very effort of lifting it. _Had I always been this weak?_

The thought vanish with a click, a satisfying sound that banish a quiver of nausea back down my throat.

The victory is short lived.

Behind the door stretches a long and narrow hall, the walls washed to the starkest of whites. Above, bare bulbs glow, weak and spaced far apart, so strips of thick shadows line the floor and stack themselves towards the ceiling. My previous assumption slaps me in the face—ain't the loon's basement.

I lean against the threshold, squinting into the dimness for a sign—for another living being. But all that juts from the smooth canvas are rows of sealed silver doors, as misplaced as capped teeth in an otherwise perfect mouth.

I use the wall for support as I step into the hall; brace myself and allow the cool surface to guide me. My heart is slamming into my throat as I approach the first rectangle of steel. The handle doesn't turn.

It's the same for all its clones: locked and unmarked.

I begin to think I'm wrong. If this place was an abandon hospital of any kind, wouldn't there be signs? Wouldn't there be some evidences of its previous life? Bile dampens my tongue as I come to a crossroad, shaped like a T, with both sides identical and leading down corridors whose ends I can't see.

_Right or left?_

I go left, trying every door I come to and hoping for a little luck. Around a bend I find just that. A square of deeper darkness, not carved from the shadows but rather from a solid. A metal surface, swung out to block the narrow path, open and inviting entrance into an unlit room.

My instincts scream to run; but something pulls me forwards.

My palms are slick with sweat, leaving a trail of salty dew as I push away from the wall and descend into darkness. Every part of me trembles, shakes away the strength I still have, but I don't retreat.

The first thing to hit me is the smell of corroding steel. Adjusting to the dimness doesn't take long, soon I'm staring at outlines of all shapes and sizes. I grope for a light switch, needing more than what filters in to make out what exactly is in this room.

Something jangles against my wrist, clattering away and swinging back like a pendulum. I wince at the noise, at the sudden chill; glancing towards the entrance and listening hard. I count my heart beats until they slow, then reach for the length of chain. The links lead toward the ceiling, beyond my sight and stretched grasp.

I tug on the steel until there's no slack. Artificial light pierces the shadows from above—a single narrow rectangle of illumination diluting the ink. The outlines become solid, colored and inviting investigation. But my eyes are glued to the two panels that have parted over my head, pulled back to reveal a pane of glass. One-way?

A cold fear slithers down my spine. Is someone watching me now?

_Why would anyone need to..._

My eyes slide down. The room is large, stretching at least fifty feet each way. But despite its size, the space is crowded. Devices, tall and twisted. Dull steels, marred with blotches of flaking crimson. Never ending cabinets that line the walls. A flap of white canvas with a single wooden chair standing before it, straps hanging from its arms, around its ankles, a crown resting around its neck.

I can't swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. Can't hear a thought past the blood in my ears. My feet shuffle back, hand drops the chain to grope for something stable.

_Torture chamber... it's a frigging torture cham—_

The thought slams into a brick wall, and I into something just as hard.

I spin so fast stars burst before my eyes. My fingers go lax, my head airy. The knives fall, scatter as they hit the floor—one skitters between two large feet. The room floods with light.

And like a switch turning on, the trance breaks and I lunge forwards on my better leg. I realize my mistake a second too late. My fist is caught with embarrassing ease, twisted around until I feel the bones of my shoulder grinding together. The air is driven from my lungs by a single jab and my knees finally give to my weight.

I collapse in a heap of gasps.

"Let me educate you, little turtle, since the good Doctor has yet to do so." the voice is deep, thick with an accent that clips every vowel. His laugh is tires over gravel. "There is such a thing in this world as overeager." _Not Doc._

Nor is it his crippled body that crouches before me. The colors of ashes and embers wrap this man from head to toe, a cyclone of ruffled fabrics stitched together. Human nails protrude from the end of his gloves in sharply filed tips. And when his eyes fall to my level, they fade within the mangled, burnt flesh that surrounds them on all sides.

My fingers tremble into fists. My lungs quiver with desperate breaths, shaking the cracks in my ribs. I can't force enough air out to make a sound—shame, I have a few words for this bastard.

And he knows it too, because his mask ruffles to what could only be a sneer. His hand comes up, nails tentative in their grasp of a radio. "Doctor Dombrovski, your patient is ready for you."

Static follows, then the pleased voice of Doc, "Excellent! We'll be right there."

_We?_

There's no time to think on it, because the next second the radio is belted and the burned man is latched onto my arm, jerking me to my feet. All my struggling doesn't do a damn thing. Every elbow I swing, every punch I throw, every attempt of freeing my arm I make only drains me of my little strength. He knows my injuries, knows how to use them to his best advantage. There's something about this new opposition that doesn't sit right, something dangerous and keen.

One thing's for sure, he doesn't play around.

He shoves me into the wooden chair and pulls the first strap over my chest before I can make a move. My arms and legs follow suit—the straps are rough, drenched and dyed by crimson blood. I try not to think of who it's from.

"And who th' hell are you?" I grate out, my palms grinding into the solid wood arms, working back and forth in an useless attempt to loosen the harsh hold.

"My name no longer exists... much like your own" comes the curt reply, as quick and cutting as a knife in the side. My eyes gaze up at the six foot figure, seething with all the rage I can't release. "But that is trivial—you want to know of my purpose."

He turns from me, looking where I can't see. The headrest is littered with splinters, pricking me as I try to follow the movement of this nameless man. He circles the chair like a predator toying with its lunch. Nails scrape metal. Air bathes my neck, rancid and hot. Something cold and sharp slips between the bones of my throbbing shoulder. I recoil with a hiss, but it's already gone.

I wait for numbness to steal my lucidity, to drag me down and lock me in my own mind again. Instead, lava carve tunnels out of my veins, fills them until the pressure is too much.

Air shudders in between my teeth and the oxygen only fuels the fire. The feeling erupts within my chest, heart stuttering into a sprint that won't slow.

"What did ya..." I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the suddenly too bright light.

"You should pray you never learn it." the words are distant. And for a moment I don't understand them, but as his footsteps fade the meaning becomes clear. The threat is anything but hollow.

The silence he leaves behind doesn't last long. Doc's shuffling gait soon finds me, but no others'. I slump in my chair.

_We..._

"I must say, child, I am quite impressed." his gloves snap as he readjusts them, "You have an admirable will for one so young—strong, tenacious. Unfortunately, wise doesn't seem to follow those." he laughs, lightly.

Gray eyes look me over, their invisible touch lingering even after they refocus above my head. He smiles. "I didn't think I would have something to show my employer so soon. When one of his underlings arrived this afternoon, I told him his trip here was a waste of valuable time. Yet, it seems you've proven me wrong. Very satisfying results, I must say."

The floor is dancing, ripples and waves of liquid concrete. "It was a test?" I growl, half at myself.

Of course it was. Why else leave me unrestrained in a room full of small knives?

"Indeed." he pace forwards, two steps. "Don't be angry with yourself, child—you did very well. So well, in fact, that I propose we have another. Let's prove my point now, shall we?"

He stoops beyond my sight, reappearing with a scalpel in hand.

"My employer wasn't much amused, but I found the discovery fascinating. And what better way to demonstrate my uses than by changing his mind?"

_Demonstrate_... My eyes find the glass ceiling, scanning the vast expanse for a shadow or face. But all I see is a washed out reflection of this room.

When I look back, head spinning and nausea crawling up my throat, Doc is no where in sight. Wheels whine, the sound like four dying rats fighting over their last meal, scraping their way towards me in an endless fury.

There's only one thing on the table, a length of cloth splitting the silver slab down the middle like a fresh wound. All red and jagged.

Doc slips the scalpel's sharp tip beneath the fabric, lifting it up with a morbid interest. But my eyes remain on the cart, mind looping in an attempt to figure out just why the hell it's needed.

A curtain of white close over the gray. I blink sweat from my eyes, gazing up until wire framed glasses emerge. They shift, two worms devouring each other, end over end—their prize the empty sockets of—

"What is this?"

I jerk, eyes flinching away from the impossibility.

_Not real. Relax._

But my heart won't slow down.

"Oh dear, too high of dosage..." pencil across paper, scratching the words out even as Doc speaks them. "I do apologize for that. But the sooner you answer my previous question, the sooner we can be done here. And believe me, child, it only gets worse."

Red dangles before me, the scalpel jutting from one of two holes like an ejected eyeball. The cloth is tattered, clearly missing a large piece of itself, but the gist is there.

"A mask." I breathe, wrists working within their confines.

"Yes, yes. But what is it to _you_?"

My brow crumples, a tremor lurching my shoulders back. The words are a river of conflicting tides. "I don't... it's..." I reach for the nearest bubble, ready to retell the first one that pops. "It's jus'—"

_Quit talking._

I shake my head and Doc looks away. His eyes don't return to me for several seconds, but when they do, they glisten with the wildness of an alley cat who just cornered her next meal. He's in control.

"The memory side of this doesn't much matter. It's of little loss. And," he adds, as he looks behind me once more, "I still argue that it betters the project's chances of success. In fact, the stimulate my associate injected our friend with, but a short time ago, was designed by me for the very purpose of memory suppression."

Who the hell is he talking to? I try to form the words on my tongue, but there are too many. Too much to focus on. But I can understand the feeling that rise up in me. Anger. Bitter rage that cut through the bandages and chaff my skin. That twist my wrists with an urgency not present before.

"To demonstrate my point, his reaction to my next words should be much the same, regardless of any previous recollection."

There's a noise, an impatient _huff_ that grants Doc the little permission he needs to continue.

The mask that still dangles from the scalpel flutters back into view. "I do not believe you are completely without perception on what this symbolizes. You had an answer, no matter how vague, but chose not to speak it."

"You aren't... as smart... as ya think." I pant, lungs so desperate for air that they feel like they're caving in. Shriveling up like popped balloons.

He hums, contemplative. "Aren't I? You see, child, by our human perception, red represents such things as rage, willpower, longing, courage, malice and wrath; among many other things. But the theme is consistent through it all. Danger, power, determination." he wears an easy smile, two rows of maggots trying to eat past his cracked lips.

I force my eyes to stay on him, despite the delusion. To look away now is to surrender. I won't give him that.

"I can see why you chose it. From what I've observed it suits you quite well, the closest thing to an identity as, perhaps, one of your nature could come. Do correct me if I'm wrong."

He drops the cloth onto the cart, eyes patient and eager for a defense. One which I don't have.

"It is as I expected then." he says, straightening his slipping glasses.

"You're analyzin' me." I spit.

Doc's smile widen. "Quite right."

"_Why_?"

He seems delighted to answer. "Because, to control something, you see, you must first _understand_ it. Ignorance can only lead to failure."

"Control," my tongue is lost on the word. Mind too wrap up in remembering the definition.

But Doc's attention is already back on the door. "And, you see, if there is no _before_ to retract to, then the _after_ you wish to create is without fault."

Without warning, without a moment for my mind to catch up, a sound like claps of thunder breaks the beat of stillness,

Then a voice. Raspy and young.

Familiar beyond reasoning...

"Well, I'm impressed Doc."

**Date: February 14; Time: 3:14 AM. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . POV: Leo**

The city that never sleeps. The city that stretches out for miles of jaded rooftops and streets, that is inhabited by high reaching buildings and swarms of lowlife humans. This is the city that swallowed my brother in its never ending run of life—the city that keeps on running as if nothing ever happened. Apathetic.

My hatred is misdirected, I know. My train of thought sounding more like Raphael's by the day, as if his passion had to flee to some other recess of existence after he vanished from ours.

With the thought, my hands turn to fists atop one of the thick wire cords of the Manhattan Bridge. Somehow, after hours of searching, Casey and I ended up here, watching the late night traffic from a tower. Far below, the East River water churns black. And to my right, the city I've come to hate in the past week glows with its rebellious light. The unceasing hum distant and droning.

Casey clears his throat, the sound nearly drowned by the wind.

My jaw clench. "Something on your mind?"

Footsteps behind me, then my human friend leans next to me. "It ain't buggin' ya?" he says, pulling his hockey mask up to stare at me.

I look away. "What?" but it goes without saying.

The utter lack of Foot activity. The sudden disappearance of every Purple Dragon in town. The stillness. It's driving me crazy.

I exhale. "Yes. How can't it? Nothing adds up, Casey."

"What I don't get is, if the Foot know yer a turtle down, why are they hiddin'?"

I shove away from the ledge. "That's what I'd like to know." the words are a sneer of defeat, a glare I level at the city, as if the mere action could delve all its secrets from the deepest of depths. But nothing gives, and I meet Casey's eyes for the first time all night.

"The Foot didn't just leave all that evidences behind by accident," I say, "They wanted us to find it. They wanted us to find Raph's shell cell, his gear, all those _broken _weapons, all the blood..." Anger rises alongside images, still fresh in my mind of that night. With a shake of my head, I banish them. "So why then?"

Casey doesn't seem to have an answer. And I begin to wonder why we divided into teams how we did—Mikey wouldn't have brought this up.

A sigh, "Look man, I don't have an answer for ya. I wish I did, but I don't. All I know is things are crazy right now—ya need to take a breath, clear ya head."

"Take a breath?" I echo, stomach rolling. "While, what? My brother suffers in some... some—" _he might not even be alive._

My fingers find Raphael's mask, looped around my belt. It's a reminder I found in his room on that first night, after I fled the optimistic words of my Master and the unrelenting looks of my brothers. I needed something to carry with me, some piece of him to drive me on.

"I'm not the one you should be worrying about." I mutter, too low for anyone but myself to hear.

"What about his mask?" the question comes from under two pinched brows.

I release the soft fabric, "What about it?"

"Ya didn't find it."

"Just a ripped piece of it." I clarify. "Why?"

He shifts his duffel bag, uncomfortable. Floundering for words. "Well, why take it? Why leave everythin' else and not leave his mask, too?"

"There's no reason to _any_ of this. If they were planning on using Raph's mask, or anything else against us they would have done it by now."

"But, Leo—"

"It's been eleven days, Casey. We're all exhausted. Mikey isn't himself. Donnie's working around the clock for leads. Sensei is..." I drop it. "I don't know."

Because maybe Casey is right. Maybe I'm moving too fast, not thinking. Eleven days... maybe Shredder just wants us to suffer in the unknown a little longer. A month. Two. Three, even.

Longer still?

"This is all my fault." the confession tumbles out like rocks down a mountain. Dangerous and fast.

The rebuttal comes just as quick. "No, it ain't."

"It _is._ I drove him out of the lair. I failed him. And now I'm failing Mike and Don, too." I pull Raphael's mask from my belt, clutching the velvet soft fabric in one hand. "I'm the leader of my brothers, I'm suppose to protect them."

"There's a lot of I's there, Leo. Ya can't take all the blame on this."

But I'm not listening to Casey. To his attempt at easing my guilt, to a tone of his voice I've not heard before. Chiding. Consoling.

My eyes soften, thumb rubbing over the red cloth. "It's like..." I trail off, dropping my arm to my side. Something clicks, something so blatantly obvious that I feel it like a blow. "It's like they're toying with us."

Casey quits talking.

"Think about it, they sit back while we separate, wear ourselves down looking for Raphael. We let our guard down, we get ambushed... They win. _Shredder_ wins."

"Ya think so?" but his face screams he came to a similar conclusion _days_ prior.

I nod anyway, pulling my shell cell out and dialing Mikey's number.

"Raph will kill me if I let anything happen to them." I mutter, phone at my ear.

"Yeah," Casey laughs, "Sounds like Raph."

I almost smile. The voice of my younger brother is crisp in the back of my mind, loud and brazen as he scolds _me_ about our safety. About how stupid we are for risking our necks for him.

I frown now, thinking back to every time Raph's been hurt and the indifferent way he brushed it off. _Always_. Yet anyone else gets hurt and he freaks. Does he really care so little about himself... or is it just his macho act?

Mikey answers, ripping me from my thoughts, "Yeah, bro?"

I glance back at Casey, down at the mask in my own hand, at the city lights and roofs spanning in front of us.

New York is a big city. Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx. It will take us forever to search the whole thing. Twice as long if—_No__, this needs to be done, no taking risks._

"Leo, you there?"

Somehow, I manage to dislodge the lump in my throat, "We need to regroup."

I don't hear Mike's response. Because in the next beat of my heart, I feel it tear in two. As much as I want to find Raphael, I have two other brothers who need me.

Two other brothers who I can still protect.

Why, then, does it feel like such a betrayal?

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! ^_^**

**And before I forget, _again, _I've decided that I _am_ going to do the NIU AU Series. Once I finish with this version, at least. So, if there is anything you might want to see, any scenes you want to see written another way, any interesting spins/takes on chapters, ideas, suggestions, etc, just feel free to drop me a PM. :)  
**

**Hopefully I'll be able to start that little adventure before the end of this year... _Yeesh._**

**Also, this nameless new antagonist, any suggestions on what Raphie-boy could refer to him as? Awesome word(s); character trait(s) that stood out; literary reference(s) he might remind you of? Drop me any ideas you might have, even the oddest. :D (seriously, because I am clueless on this one...)  
**

**Reviews are very much appreciated! **

**Next chapter is, drum roll please... "Fear No Evil"**

**_Cheers!_ your red writing rebel.**


	9. Chapter 8:Pt1: Fear No Evil

**Disclaimer: I write for the same reason I breathe-to live. ~my personal motto. The turtles just enable me. ;)  
**

**A/N: Wow... it's been two whole months since I last updated. O.o Oh, I suck. Yeah, so sorry about that, I can see why some people were wondering if I had dropped this story. :-/  
**

**It's just that I'm a bit of a perfectionist, so I spend hours upon hours stressing over small things. Such as 'would unknit or unravel sound better here?' which I literally spent ten minutes debating with myself... only to remove the line entirely the next day. That is one habit I wish I could break. But anyways, I just want to say that I'm not the kind of girl who gives up. So no matter how long it takes, I will finish this story.**

**...And seeing as I have a hell bred _plague_ right now, I have lots of time to write! So with any luck I can get a ton done. :)  
**

**Now... you probably noticed that 'pt1' in the chapter title. *hangs head*yep, this is only the first half of chapter 8, and I never intended for it to be so long, I swear! But it just wouldn't stop growing. It is literally 3 times the size I originally planned. And the other half is still unfinished, but will hopefully be up within the next two weeks.  
**

**Lastly, I just wanted to say a huge _thank-you!_ NIU won awards in this year Stealthy Stories competition, which certainly surprised the heck out of me. ^_^  
**

**Okay, that's all from this rambler. ^_^'**

_**Word count: 3214**_

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**Chapter Eight**

**Fear No Evil **_(Part one)_

**Date: Unknown; Time: Unknown**

His pacing is silent as a panther's. Back and forth, back and forth. He doesn't slow—hasn't stopped since he entered an hour ago.

I'm still in the chair, strapped down and watching an invisible path be traced into the cement floor. Only now there's a hole in my side. Small as a straw and threaded with a clear tube. I try not to move. Instead I think. Behind half lidded eyes I try to place a name to the face that I saw not too long ago. Red hair, glasses, a smile like an inflated frog. I've seen it before.

Even through the delirium of that drug; even as I drowned in oxygen, every breath like wet cotton in my lungs—heavy and suffocating, dragging me into darkness—recognition bobbed at the border of my mind.

The only face I recognize and I can't remember a name—one I'm sure Doc said. Or even how I _know_ that face.

Just that I do.

Just that I laughed when he staggered into view, his lab coat identical to Doc's, his glasses as glaring, his enthusiasm as disturbing—

"Ya some kind of guard dog?" through clenched teeth, the words slice into the silence.

The so called nameless man stops as abruptly as he began his track. He turns to face me, the red and gray fabric that twists up his form shifting like ash fall. "How disappointing." he says, chest rising. "When Dombrovski described your earlier altercation with Doctor Chaplin, I was expecting something a bit more... creative."

"Chaplin," I echo under my breath.

"But you don't remember that." he laughs, stepping towards me with a glint in his eyes. "Do you?"

It strikes me then—with a swallow that fills my lungs with anything but the air I need—It strikes me with what this man is. What it is about him that's so _wrong._ He's inhuman in a way unlike myself, in a way that could walk the streets and not draw a single eye. Yet it's dangerous. It's feral—_he's_ _feral._ Radiating with the unrestrained madness of a starving animal stalking out a scrap of food.

He circles around my chair with a tiger's ease. "This," he stops behind me, his words no more than a growl. "Does it recall anything?"

Something sharp in my shoulder; his rancid breath. Beyond that are only fragments, as biting as broken glass and scattered into every corner of my mind.

"Who's pet are ya then?" I say, ejecting as much mockery as I can into the words. Ignoring everything else. "Chaplin's or Dombrovski's?"

"You do not humor me," he says.

"What makes ya think I was tryin'?"

A shrill sound pierce the room like a drill through paper. "Dombrovski was not lying when he said he would not harm you. He doesn't like to dirty his hands. But I?" he pivots around the chair and leans so close that I retract into the wooden headrest. His claws are like weighted needles on my skin, tracing trails of blood up my arms. I bite back a cringe.

_You want to know my purpose... _Black eyes narrow. "I was hired for such things." ..._You should pray you never learn it._ "Just take comfort in knowing that you are wanted in one piece."

My lungs shudder for a shallow breath. "Down boy." I hiss, though I meant it as a growl.

He smiles, as sudden and strange as a panther prowling the concrete jungle. But he withdraws and drops into a seat, his arms resting against the back of the chair like swords on a mantel.

"Such a vulnerable position." his eyes fall, slowly, raking my entire figure with invisible fingers. I will myself not to shift. "So helpless..." that savage glare meets mine, glistening with mockery.

"Untie me and I'll so ya who's helpless." I spit, lurching against my binds.

"I plan to. After all, starvation is such an... easy way to go." he chuckles, "Comparatively, that is."

The cold of this room is everywhere. In _Feral's_ voice, in his words, in my bones and blood. But I'm far from numb. Anger glows like new embers, just waiting to engulf any kindling within reach.

Fabric gathers into a knitted smirk. "And we certainly can't keep feeding you through a tube."

"_Go_ _ta_ _hell_."

He laughs, louder than before. "Where do you think we are?" his fingers flare out, nails flashing in the light. "A hell created for you, in which you will plead to escape into the eternal one soon enough."

"Oh yeah," I lean back, forcing ease into a roll of my throbbing shoulders. "I'm shakin' in my shell now."

"You are foolish to laugh, little turtle. To _doubt."_ he hisses. "I've been in the hands of cruel men before, I understand such things as _pain._ A single needle and flame can cause you more anguish than the breaking of bones, That I learned during my time. Don't think I won't teach you the same."

My eyes drop, soaking in the bruises and cuts and brown tinged bandages that twine up my body. _You managed to survive the fall, _Doc's voice echoes back to me. But there's so much more than that. More than just a fall.

There's a lifetime of moments where I faced monsters before. Because not every scar is newly minted. Too many have faded into fine lines, into nothing but the ghost of a blade's touch. In a way, they are memories; forever stitched into my skin, each with a story to tell...

_I'm_ _all_ _ears_.

"Are you?" Feral tips his head. His knuckles cracking like hot iron plunged through ice.

In the span of a slow blink I realize I spoke aloud.

_Roll with it._

My lips quirk up. "Sure, if you're gonna keep yapping, it might as well be 'bout somethin' good. Tell me who fried ya. I wanna send 'em a basket or somethin'—a personal thanks."

He sits a little straighter. The air shifts with him, mocking the stillness and staleness that has so suddenly surfaced.

Guess I struck a nerve.

He exhales, but doesn't relax. "There are two kind of men in this world." he says, resignation weighing on a rising palm. "Those with no boundaries, who win dominance by any means; and those restrained by their own weaknesses, who submit or break beneath the other. My captors thought themselves the former and believed me to be the latter. Yet... who is it that still lives?"

Between us, the words stand, long and languishing as a decaying brick wall. Instability grows with each short lived second, swaying and falling until they feel more dangerous than a collapsing building. Rashly, I force my own voice through the cracks. "So ya broke yer own boundaries and killed 'em."

A pensive hum bounds back—an echo of barely bridled anger. "Not quite. You see, there is a cycle to this madness. A line of command that is scaled. If one is to reach the top of this chain, another must fall. This was their way." he tilts his head, watching the ceiling as if it were playing the past.

His focus returns to me through a narrowed gaze. His words are a challenge before he even speaks them. A dare to shut up or put up.

"I merely became what they wanted me to become." he says, slowly. "I became them."

Unwarranted, sickness bubbles in my throat and a hundred mummers drone in my ear, each with a question, some with a warning. But I choose a response. "You gave 'em what they wanted. Bent to their will cause ya didn't want to die. Sounds to me like they're still the 'dominate ones'."

Without another word, Feral lunge forwards. The rusty chair topples beneath him, and mine reels back with his sudden weight. We share a breath. A space as thin as thread holds us apart—so little that I can see the hills and valleys that has been carved into his skin by fire and fists. If only this was another disillusion... then again, it's almost right. A monster on the inside, and now the outside too.

_...Like you?_

Even with the ghost of the voice slithering through my consciousness, I don't flinch. I don't look away. Pride keeps me still, keeps the wonder pressed to the back of my mind. Going crazy is something I can worry about later. Feral is an enemy I can fight now, in whatever way possible—

A gasp rattles my teeth and a shiver shakes my spine as an icicle rips through my ribs. Cold and sharp, dripping its blood and mine to the cement floor. I want to cuss. The pain was unexpected; my reaction still should have been stony defiance.

Feral smiles behind his mask and drops the small needle into my lap. The thin tube that is connected to the hollowed metal end withers like a beheaded snake. Vaguely, I recall Doc saying something about pneumonia and the feeling of drowning even as I swallowed air.

_Well, at least they don't want me dead._

"The truth," Feral says, dusting his hands clean. "Is not always as clear as you think."

I take a painful breath. "Nah, ya just like to ignore reality, 's all. Yer word ain't worth anything against that, I don't care who ya think ya are, pal."

He steps back and sets to pacing again. Frustration quickens him and cool resolve keeps him straight. "Who am I?"

I roll my wrists, taken aback by the abrupt change of tone. "What?"

"If I am not who I think I am... then who am I?"

"A screwball—"

"And who are you?" he cuts me off, boredom collapsing to contempt.

A headache blossoms behind my brows, as sudden as a sucker punch. I pinch my eyes shut, as if doing so could recall the forgotten. But it's no use. The pain subsides soon and I'm left staring at the present, more of a spectator than a player.

Even as my tongue flicks out to wet desert dry lips, control doesn't seem to be mine. There is another force, a puppeteer that twists my limbs and leans me forwards; That meets Feral's sneer with an arrogant sort of snicker and a brazen smirk.

My mouth hinge open to words I never planned. "I'm the guy who wins."

Stoically, Feral casts the toppled chair into a far corner, where it disappears amongst the wicked devices that I all but forget were there. "Well," he says at last, a laugh in his voice. "_Y__ou_ certainly aren't going to kill me. But that was not my question. I want to know where your boundaries are, little turtle. What won't you do?"

_Nothing. _The thought snips my tongue before any answer can fall from it. 'Nothing' doesn't seem right. 'Nothing' would make me no better than Feral.

_What won't I do? ...What haven't I done?_

I wait for another twist of the knife in my skull, for a wave of nausea to turn my stomach, but it doesn't come. Reality remains pinned like a mouse in a trap, its ever fading moments gifted to the ever fleeing _now_. It just never ends. Time's cycle is much like Feral's in that way—falling and rising, falling and rising.

Both seem to be given to madness, anyway...

I offer a shrug. "Lose." is all I say.

"So flippant." he muses, running his hand over his head—something of a habit that never died. "You remind me very much of myself."

It's a cold slap. All the crueler for the fact I don't get a chance to respond.

"Let me educate you, little turtle, since you are so incompetent with answers. Who you are is no more. To those outside these walls, you don't exist, and neither do I. There is no family searching for a lost member. No friends wondering where you might have gone. And no home missing its resident. Not even a name is attached to you."

"And why the hell should I believe anythin' ya say?"

His shoulders square, lift with a certainty that lamely pretends to be unfounded. "Who is ignoring reality now?" he clicks.

My head leans back as a dark chuckle scratches out my throat. "Ya give yerself too much credit." I growl, rage fueling more fierceness into every turn of my wrists. "I ain't nothin' like you. Ya know what you are? You're jus' a sick bastard."

The smell of stale copper strengthens, becomes new again as the rough leather binds bites through the bandages and into my skin. Pain takes a backseat to numbing anger.

"This game's gettin' old—"

"This is no game."

"Could'a fooled me." I snap back. "You and Doc like screwin' with people's heads, I got that loud and clear, pal. But I've got news fer ya, it's gonna take a lot more than blowin' hot air to get to me."

"Fair enough. I much prefer torture, at any rate. It should be fun watching you break."

I snort. "I don't break. Doesn't matter what _the_ _hell_ _ya_ _do_ _t__o_ _me_." with a grunt of pain my right hand rips free. Blood pours down my arm, staining emerald to ruby in a slick cascade. I blink sweat from my vision, panting lightly at the victory. Too surprised to care that an enemy towers over me.

But Feral's eyes never waver from mine. "Don't stop on my account," he says, anticipation lacing his voice like a drug. "Go on, entertain me, little turtle."

I lick my lips, mind skipping over a thousands ways to stall and a dozen ways to escape. "Thought this was Doc's show."

"Oh, he is watching now." he flicks a finger up. "Along with Doctor Chaplin, who will be overseeing this little... project for his so called master. Come now, what can it hurt?"

In a fight... a lot. There is no chance of overpowering Feral, or sprinting through the halls towards freedom. _Not yet, anyways._ To take a stand here is to show defiance, nothing more, nothing less. It's an understanding shared with a silent stare.

With the callousness of a brute, I unstrap my other arm, my stare fixed on Feral. My ribs protest when I bend over, but I manage to free my legs quickly. He takes two steps back as I stand, the needle falling to the floor with a dull and echoing clang.

At my full height I lack more than a head to Feral. Despite that, he isn't a mountain of mass. He's as lean as he is tall, not a disadvantage in sight—a deadly warrior, no doubt.

Rolling his shoulders back, his palms fall loose by his sides. Cocky ease settles around him. "Two options," he says, "You walk, or I drag you. Your choice."

"Jeez, how thoughtful." the adrenaline that freed my wrist is waning already, and in its place raises a searing pain and wash of nausea. I swallow both down and flick blood at Feral's feet. "Why don't ya take a wild guess," I spit.

Standing isn't as easy as sitting—not when my right leg protests every small movement and my ribs rattle like they're seconds from caving in. I breathe the smell of blood into lungs that just won't loosen. And shove away any thoughts of realms outside the conscious one.

I make the first move. Close the distance between us and form fists I never expect to throw.

_Don't be stupid..._

He swings a high kick at my head, so swift that instincts drive me to the ground. I catch myself on an elbow; bite back a howl at the agony that bursts in my spine like a bullet through flesh.

Dammit. That shouldn't have been so easy.

Even as I think it, feet stop before my face. "Get up." Feral demands.

_Stay down. _I growl, shaking the voice away and shoving myself up. Quick and casual as a sudden storm, my fist is caught.

"Allow me to pay you a kindness." His grip doesn't falter. And the blood coating my sweaty skin isn't enough to slide free. "Thirteen days ago you nearly died."

I grit my teeth against the accusation. Though I hardly doubt the truth of it.

"For eleven of those since," he continues. "You were comatose. Fighting is not something the good Doctor would recommend."

Before I can say anything, Feral sends me stumble towards the open door. I barely catch myself. "Now walk," he commands. When I don't move, his hand connects with my shell and I tumble into the hall.

We go the whole way like this, my limping steps pausing ever so often to test Feral's patiences. The room I first awoke in is passed up for a well of stairs—one I nearly die descending. Then a door whines open to a cell so small it echoes my breath back.

My protest is as useless as my detained punch had been two stories up. My palms meet cold metal and the door seals behind me.

And I'm left in pure darkness. Left with my thoughts. Left with a steeling resolve.

_I won't break._

Nothing they can do—nothing _he_ can do will break me. I'm not afraid of him. Of _Feral._

But that doesn't change the fact that I've gotta get out of here.

**Date: February 22; Time: 4:19 PM. . . . . . . . . . . POV: Leo**

I see him in my sleep. In my dreams he is still, silent. He is here, with me, stalking the lair like a ghost. There are moments when an unguarded grin stretch across his face, when his shoulders shake with a mute laugh; moments when he seems so real. And then there are visions of us, small and innocent as we raced through the narrow halls of our first home. Back when things weren't so complicated...

In my nightmares he is gone. He's in a cell with chains around his wrists, a prisoner to darkness that never ceases. He's being dragged through flickering halls, down stairs and into torture chambers; through who's door you can hear his screams. Screams ripped from him through any barrier of clenched teeth or bit tongue. That room tastes his tears. In my nightmares, he is gray and dripping red... His eyes are inky pools of black, devoid of his gold stained passion. Devoid of life.

In my nightmares my brother is not dead. He just wishes he were.

And every morning, as I wake to a damp pillow and strangled pants, I wish myself so. Eighteen days and I'm still here. Raph's still missing.

This isn't working.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! And yeah... this isn't my best work (so many messy transitions, darn-it! x_x), so I will probably end up rewriting this one day. But I hoped y'all enjoyed and I would love to hear your thoughts.  
**

**Oh! One last thing before I forget: I have a new story up, called 'The Last Thread Of Sanity', _and_ 'Watch Me Burn', co-written by ThisCataslyt'sPen, TheThirdAetas and myself is up as well. If you haven't already, check it out. We'd love to hear what you think!**

**Cheers! your red writing rebel.**


	10. Chapter 8:Pt2: Fear No Evil

**Disclaimer: If pennies appeared in my pockets like lint does, well, maybe I would own them. But, atlas, that is not the case.  
**

**A/N: Whoop! Updated under three weeks, baby. *dances* LOL. So I wrote this whole chapter between the hours of 11:00 pm and 3:30 am, every night for about two weeks. XD So I'm really hoping the writing is good, and seeing as this rounds off at roughly 10,000 words written over the course of seven days (That's nearly a NaNoWriMo pace!), I really hope that this chapter won't be a tragic case of quantity over quality. *fidgets nervously*  
**

**I also just wanted to note that the turtles might come off as a little OOC in this chapter, which I hope is justified by the situation.. erm, it's just how I picture they would act given the stresses and unspoken conflicts that are brewing. But let me know what you think! ^_^  
**

**Oooh! I'm also super happy to say that I wrote my first oneshot, '_Over Cocoa_'! Why I'm so excited about that is the fact it's the first 'short story' type work I've ever done, long drawn out novels tend to be my comfort zone. It was emotional and fun to get out of that norm. :)  
**

**Anyways, part two picks up a fictional hour after part one ended.**

**Word count: 5597 (yep, and the goal count _was_ only 3000. _That_ got blown out of the water, wouldn't you say?)  
**

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**Chapter eight  
**

**Fear No Evil **_(Part two)_

**Date: February 22; Time: 5:21 pm. . . . . . . . POV: Michaelangelo**

I must be deaf. Or the world has gone suddenly mute. Guess it doesn't matter—it's quiet all the same. As if reality has taken on the plot of a horror movie, there is turmoil and tension in the air, thick and heavy and best felt in the quiet lulls before the screaming starts.

I check the clock for the thousandth time in nearly three weeks, just counting the minutes before we can leave this shell of a home for the common crime littered streets Manhattan has become. As if all the baddest baddies decided there's no more competition, no more challenge in terrorizing citizens. All the fun left with 'the red one'. With... him.

I shake my head, blaming the heat building in my eyes on the steam wafting up from a miserable looking dinner. Leo's cooking skills are rubbing off on me, soon we'll be relying on the pizza guy.

My eyes raise to the refrigerator, where a note dangles from a neon magnet, the writing as neat as Don's quick hand could print it. The words blur, and my eyes drop to the calendar below it. Bright red ink bleeds across nearly every square, as if marking the graves of a serial killer's victims.

Comparing this _hell_ to a bad movie—_It keeps playing like one._

"Mike,"

I stiffen, forcing myself back together with staples and tape. The smile I greet my brother with feels like a grotesque thing, as if staples really are tacked there. For all I know, it looks just as bad.

"Oh, hey Leo. Dinner's almost ready."

The eldest doesn't move from the threshold, doesn't say a word as he glance around the room, as if some intruder was waiting in the shadows for him to let his guard down. Finally, he meets my eyes. "You don't have to do that." he says.

I falter, turn away before he can see and stir the burning food. "A turtle needs to eat, bro."

"Not just that." he swallows, loud as a drowning man, and pushes on. "I miss him too. And I know it's... it's _frustrating,_ but we can't give up hope."

The shove clicks off, but the heat doesn't die. "Then what the shell are you lecturing me about?" the words scald my tongue and leach the color from Leo's face like paint off knockoff action figures.

He balks from my gaze. "I'm not—"

"Cause I'm pretty damn hopeful right now, bro. You don't see me sulking around, starving myself out of some—"

"Mike!" he snaps, cringing as he throws a glance into the hall. "I didn't mean it like that." he pinch his brows between two fingers and takes a breath. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am: Why are we fighting? Neither of us has the energy for this.

He didn't come in here with that intention. "Just, just... you don't have to act like this isn't affecting you," he says.

"You're one to talk—"

He lifts a placate hand. "Okay," he says, leaning against the threshold and staring at the ceiling. The hollow of his throat bobs, as if every word dredged up found itself to be the wrong one, and was forced back down. An eternity later, his gaze finds me. "Save me some dinner."

It hits me then. The look on my eldest brother's face—the glint of a hunter within those onyx eyes. And I drop my own, shell bumping the counter as I take in the swords strapped across his back. The phone on his hip, hidden beneath small bags of smoke bombs and shurikens. Leo's fist is taut on the mask tucked into his belt—on _his_ mask. Red and green wound together with a familiarity that turns my knees to jelly. That night comes flooding back.

_'But the blood. Father, there was so _much_...' _and it could just as easily have been Leo's.

I grope for the counter, tongue wet and washed with bitter acid. My eyes dart behind Leo to the sealed bathroom door. _Aw_ _shell, hold it down, Mike, hold it down._

"You said we had to regroup, bro." I manage lamely.

His lips quirk to the side. "Relax, Mikey. I'm just heading out early tonight. You should stay in, try to get some sleep." he smiles, that easy 'listen to me because you know I'm right' smile that is so disarming and reassuring. For me, that is. It always started fights with...

"Yeah," Quick as a popped balloon, I deflate.

"And Mike? Maybe try to get Donnie out of the lab for a few hours."

I nod, though we both know that has become an impossible task. A hand caps my shoulder, giving me a light shake. "Raph's strong," Leo says, this smile not quite reaching his eyes. "We'll find him."

My own mouth twists up with false cheer. "And then he'll kick our shells for taking so long."

"Exactly."

With that, Leonardo drops his hand and heads out the door. I watch him go. The silence returns like winter's chill, all the colder for being barred out for any amount of time. Like a ghost's, its presence makes me shiver

Mournfully, I move, clearing away pans and raiding cabinets for plates. Just three, not the five that it should be. _Is this how Donnie feels all the time?_ When the numbers aren't right? When things are 'out of sequence'...

My arms fall to my side, more noodle like than the charred mess crowding atop chipped flatware. I'm no help. A brother is missing and here I am, burning food and fighting tears. Playing pretend isn't keeping pessimism away.

And that has always been my job.

"Guys, I have a—where's Leo?" Don enters, his hands full of papers that still smell of freshly printed ink. He tilts his head, an analytical gesture that has been far and few these past weeks. When I don't answer his question, he spins around, casting a vague search through the dark home.

I sigh, retching myself back into reality. "Just missed him, dude."

A hand waves it off, as if it weren't important to begin with. "I have a lead, Mikey," he says, slapping the notes with a knuckle. A smile hides itself in his voice, though his mouth doesn't loosen. "A warehouse by the docks, there's cargo arriving for the Purple Dragon's."

My tail hits the nearest chair, any lick of excitement or hope draining from me before it can manifest into a whoop. "So? That's nothing new, Donnie. Just Purple Dragons being Purple Dragons."

A withering glare cross the distance between us, one that warns of waning patiences. It's a look I recognize from childhood, usually received after destroying a toy Donnie had just finished patching up for me. The familiarity of it is almost enough to send me reeling into the genius' arm with the largest pout and 'I didn't break it this time!' my lips can form.

But I don't move. "How is busting a cargo drop a lead?"

"How?" Don repeats, not bothering to hide the irritation, "Well, for one, guess who's back in town?" he snaps, "Hun. So why is _this_ so important that _he_ sees it necessary to orchestrate the pick-up?"

I lean back, jerking my palms into the air like a criminal caught fleeing. _Hands in the air, no sudden movements_. Classic cop and robbers movie scene. "Okay, okay." I ease. "I'll call, Leo."

"Don't bother."

"Uh... bro?"

"We don't need him for this, Mike. If he wants to exclude us from his little escapade..." he clears his throat and gives a long suffering glare at the clock. "Never mind. Just be ready to leave by eight. The pick-up is scheduled for eleven, but I want to scope it out before then."

I raise an eye ridge. "For three hours?"

"It's on the other side of the city," he explains absently.

I fish my phone from my belt. "Alright, I'll call Casey then and fill him in—"

"No!"

I jump at the shout, shooting Donnie a look that questions if he has an alien bug currently residing in his gut. His chest raise once, as if it's about to burst, then collapses in a nervous exhale.

Doe brown eyes flash briefly before taking cover behind the paper. "I'm sorry, Mikey." he offers a sheepish smile—so Donnie-like that I find myself nodding. "All this caffeine is starting to affect me."

I don't doubt that. The rich smell of it hangs on him like a car's air freshener. Beneath that purple mask lurks the effects of too many sleepless nights.

I rub the back of my neck, "Uh-huh." is all I can think to say, though I want to suggest a long shower and nap.

Don picks up a plate and fork, balancing the delicate glass on his fingertips before he flees the kitchen.

"Why not call Casey?" I blurt out.

For a suspiciously long second, my brother keeps his shell towards me. He turns around, mouth twitching. "Casey's mom ambushed him and April. I find it highly unlikely he'll be able to get away."

"Yeah... that woman is scary." I mumble to myself as Don shuffles back towards his lab. Sitting at the table, picking at the disgusting dinner I cooked, I realize something.

My brothers are both horrible liars.

**~*~ Time: 6:43 pm ~*~ POV: Leonardo**

I walk the edge of the beginning. A place that smells of salt and echoes with the sound of water, restlessly chopping against itself with cool indifference. The cold is deceptive, daring to challenge my memory of scorching heat. Because the last time I was here a blaze roared and blood ran.

The evidences of the battle has long since been cleared away by the city. All that remains is the outline of the building's foundation, branded into the concrete by time and weather. Soot surrounds the rectangle on all sides, the surface forever marred by a single act from my missing brother.

Bitterness twists my mouth into something of a smile. '_Once we're dead, we're dead.'_ Raphael spoke those words months ago, his face illuminated by the flashing blue and red lights of two police cruisers and an ambulance. From our rooftop perch several stories up, we watched officers march drunk and bloodied criminals into the vehicles. I stared at my brother, quiet and curious.

And he went on, a look of disgust sewn to his face. '_There ain't gonna be nothin' left of us. None of that legacy crap Mikey's always crowin' about.'_ his hands wandered from the loops of his belt and wound around the snowy ledge. '_Even fer the punks we rescue or the scum we beat... we do what we do, give 'em nightmares fer a few weeks, then what?_'

'_We're ninjas—_'

'_Yeah, yeah, strike silent and fade into the night. Wasn't what I meant, Leo._'

'_Then_ w_here _are_ you going with this, Raph?_'

_'Nothin' we do matters. Savin' those girls just now?' _he shook his head. '_Before this time yet week some sicko will see one of 'em and get an idea. Or maybe he'll have some buddies and it'll be all of 'em. Point is, this doesn't last. 'Specially when the same guys we bagged last night are already prowlin' around again._'

My agreement remained silent. Raphael was enough of a pessimist for the both of us. So for a long moment, we just stood there, listening as a hysterical young woman recounted the rescue; Screaming at the top of her lungs about the 'monsters' that attacked them... as if my brother and I were the ones ripping their clothes to shreds.

'_Then why hit the streets every night?_'

He had shrugged at the question._ 'Somethin' ta pass the time, Fearless. A turtle gets bored. Jeez, ya ain't learned that yet livin' with Mikey?'_

The answer was predictable. Because that was Raphael, when things got meaningful, he withdrew to whatever realm was the most disconnected. He turned flippant.

I scrub at my mouth, ripping away the emotions that will do me no good in my mission tonight. _Start from the beginning, follow the trail._ It might be old fashioned, but Donnie's resources aren't getting us anywhere. And I'm tired of feeling useless, of coming back every morning empty handed. There is one thing I know I can do, one plan that will either get me killed or... or what? Lay mystery to rest?

Create some closure... that's as good an answer as any.

Taking a deep breath, I set my gaze on the starry sky. In the distance is the drone of New York City, and nearer than that: workers' voices. The docks are still open. Every shout is a browbeat reminder to stay alert. _Good, _I think and drop into a crouch.

This is where this nightmare began. Not at that pile of blood soaked rubble; not on that rooftop canvas that painted the aftermath of a brutal battle; not even back at the lair with an argument between brothers. It was here... at this damned warehouse.

Coming here might be a dilapidation of always dying time, because there's nothing to shift through. But something feels left undone. Something has its fingers wound around my skull, as tangible as a ghost's touch, but there nonetheless, tugging on my conscious. At the very least, searching here is better than sitting back home. Once midnight comes, and things get dark, and the city that never sleeps settles into the night, that's when I'll set things into motion. _If they won't come to me... I'll go to them._

"Some plan," I mutter.

The sloshing of waves lapping at the docks whispers agreement. And it echoes back the words shared with Mikey not too long ago; the lies cloaked in authority, told to keep him and Don safe. That was the internal argument—that this solo act is for their own good.

Justice will see me dead before my family is harmed again. Before they pay for my mistakes more than they already are.

_What good am I to anyone dead?_

With a sharp shake of the head, I shove that reasoning away. What good am I now? Don is working himself into the ground searching for leads on a brother who wouldn't be gone if it weren't for me. While I do what? Wander a city he might not even be in.

_What good is more death?_

Unbidden, memories raise up in my mind's eye. A sea of mangled limbs, blackened and tossed by a storm of fire. The smell that clung, thick and tangible as clouds. Raphael, his head lolled against my chest, waves licking at what they had just sucked lifeless. The cold lashing at my skin as I pulled my brother's body from the bay's murky ice chilled depths.

Emptying my lungs into another's—

My jaw aches against a grief-stricken scream. An apathy as bitter as alcohol stings my lips, just another blow from a city drunk on too much life. We are as much a part of New York as the buildings that tower and the streets that wind, and yet our damage is let untended. Even Raphael would have to agree, if nothing more, the humans share this neglect with us.

I draw away from the harbor on quick and quiet feet, seeking shelter in the first of many warehouses by way of a grime slicked window. Dust billows up as I land in the shadow bathed gully of stacked cargo.

Rats scurry to darker corners as my katana whispers from its sheath. Like bubbles in ink, the outline of boxes dredge up before my eyes, every one a stroke of possible clarity just waiting to be popped. With a steady hand I ready my brush for the first dip.

And I know, even in his rashest of moments Raphael wouldn't find use in prying crates open. In searching for underground dealings the Purple Dragons or Foot Clan might be preparing to pick up.

He'd find madness.

Desperation.

A raging sorrow for irreversible actions.

Raphael might find something of himself.

**~*~ Time: 10:56 pm ~*~**

Inevitability exists in every life, even if it's only at 'the end', with death. _Inevitabilities_ are all I've ever known. Humanity will not accept us. The greatest love we'll ever know will be fraternal. Splinter will die before we're ready to let go. We won't always win.

Raphael will go first.

With all his reckless bravado and lone wolf tendencies, not even denial could fend the thought off for long. Every time my younger brother took a blade meant for me or Mike or Don, every time we hauled his beaten shell through the sewers on a somber trek home, that fear branded itself a more vivid shade.

Keep him safe... that's all I ever wanted. And now that simple mission has become my greatest failure.

From the vantage point of a powerless crane, I watch as workers shrug their vests and hard hats off, their boots leaving a long and telling path in the snow as they file into a small brownstone building to sign out for the night. Their fatigue is as palpable as a fever, every warm breath infecting the air with the tinge of a fog and every face flushing with the cold.

Exhaustion weighs my own arms at my sides, as if cinder blocks have taken stead of my swords. Beneath my feet, the crane glistens with crystals of ice and freshly fallen snow. The only thing tacking me thirty feet up is my half handed grip on the rods crisscrossing the crane's neck. I shift in my crouch, tactful as a tiger, and search the grounds below. Between the motley stacks of crates are empty alleys and a hush so heavy it holds me still.

Ships docked for the night cast bobbing shadows over my perch—the only shelter I have against all the spotlights illuminating this cargo bay. My fingers tighten around the hilts of my weapons as the minutes tick by.

In the distance, New York drones with car horns, sirens, and club music, but nothing more. The pulse of a heart beat is there, as strong as ever, but the city's breaths are being smothered. Something isn't right. Something more than lowlife thugs are stalking the streets. And what ever it is... who ever it is, is close.

My eyes take another sweep, obscured by the onslaught of icy sleet. But that is no excuse. "Shell..."

If he hadn't moved, I wouldn't have seen him. A shadow, just a glimpse of a masked head and the glint of a sheathing sword. The Foot.

My body is moving before my mind can scream any warning of traps or ambush. In the end, rational thought won't make a difference in my actions. I slide down the crane and back flip into slick snow. Teeth grinding, I shoot around a corner, katanas poised, and scan the alley.

Graffiti marred metal towers around me like a crime exhibit, each flaking piece a tribute to a gang or testament of defiance. The artwork isn't worth a second glance, but the ground is a whole other story... A litany of footprints litters the paper white floor, and one pair belongs to a runner. I trace the broadly stroked strides to the end of the rows. There, outside of the spotlights' harsh beams, are more warehouses. The brick exteriors have long since faded to a sun streaked orange, splintering boards seal up broken windows, crude and clumsy.

But more striking than the crumbling surfaces is what lays besides one: strips of wood. Pieces ripped from a gaping hole.

My eyes narrow to suspicious slits. _It's a trap..._

Even with that knowledge, I leap to the window's glass strewn edge and drop inside. I fall into a defensive kata as I circle the few upturned boxes, but I find no comfort in my blades. Unease churns my stomach with the sting of acid and every moment that ticks by wrings my nerves a notch tighter. It is as if time has become more of a factor than ever before. I feel it like an old man, how it wears on my muscles like heavy mud.

Anticipation is tying me in knots.

And the Shredder knows it. He knows that he's in control of this hell, that his best weapon is time. He grows stronger as we wither.

Moonlight illuminates a small square in the building, patterned with strips of darkness. Despite all my life's learnings, I step into the light and watch my swords flash.

"Show yourself," I growl.

Only eerie silence echoes back once my voice has died. A heavy hush that only serves to increase the strange rage. My tongue flicks out, armed with more words, but before any of them can fall there is a sound.

A _grunt_. Something so familiar it runs my blood cold. My face pales, my hands slacken. Then it comes again, and what it is strikes me like a blow: A scream trapped behind teeth and tongue, stretched out until it dies in a slither of teeth and throaty growl... the biggest show of pain Raphael would ever let on to.

Eyes narrowing, I snarl into the dimness. "How dare you."

Another grunt. And this time I can hear the static in it. A recording.

But from where and when?

I'll probably never know. Because it is then—as my mind reels back to the last time Raphael was injured in a battle with the Foot clan—that fluorescence floods the warehouse with the buzz of a swam of bees. The sudden brightness stings my eyes with a poisonousness rage. I fall back, blinking and pivoting blindly towards the sound of steps.

But the room is empty. The Foot troop gone. And scrawled across the wall in days' old paint...

_Don't lose the other two, Leonardo._

As swift and chilling as being soused in ice water, the warning steals my breath. I take a stumbling step forwards, my limbs numb and my heart pounding with panic.

_Relax, they're at the lair._

The self-assurance slams into a wall of paranoia. I rip my shell cell from my belt and hit the first name that flashes on screen. Over the blood boiling in my ears, the ringing is faint. But never ending. It stretches until my cell shudders in my grasp, ready to shatter with one more coil of muscle. My brothers wouldn't ignore a call, especially now.

I burst from the building as the on-screen clock ticks to 11:12. Icons float below the numbers, bright and insistent, I flick on the tracker program and rack my brain to remember the steps Don had taught us to track each others' phones. It is a simple system with a complex sequence—a failsafe, Don had called it. In case an enemy got the brilliant idea to use our tech against us.

Now, as I race through the docks towards the city, I curse Don's intellect. And my incompetence. But at last yellow blips blink against blue and I slow to a stop halfway up a fire escape.

Confusion pinch my brows and pivots my heels. My brothers aren't back at the lair, or at Casey and April's. They're... nearby. At the docks. Back in the direction I had just come.

"Shell, shell, shell." I want to curse stronger than that, scream true Raph style. But the yellow dots demand attention.

Anger will come later.

I hear it before I see it: a fight. The clashing of steel and wood in quick successions, battle cries that build upon each other until the voices are a single roar of defiance. Gangs are the only organism in the entire city that has ever made that sound.

When I flip to the next building, my suspicions are confirmed. Below is the aftermath of a full out brawl that was once bigger than the mere dozen Purple Dragons still standing. The bodies of fallen punks hide within snowy graves, struck still some immeasurable time ago.

A snarl sears across my lips like a white hot brander, indignant heat puffs into a Japanese curse. Mikey fights alone, surrounded on all sides by the Purple Dragons that still stand. He's holding his own, 'chucks flying to fend off pipes and chains. But defense is all Mike is managing.

I propel myself two stories down, catching myself in a graceful roll and slamming into two gang members. They tumble down with twin grunts. On my palms I spin, swiping out legs from an encroaching enemy. My fist slams into another's face.

To my left Donnie twirls his bo in a fury of blows. His attacks are relentless, but against Hun, they do little harm. Without a partner, the match is a stale mate.

Dodging a bat, I split kick two mo-hawked heads and pull a single katana free.

"Leo? Bro, what are you doing here? Did Donnie call you—"

I don't spare Michaelangelo a glance before bolting forwards and bowling into Hun. In a twist of limbs and brass and steel, we topple. Snow blooms up in a spray of needle sharp dust. My fingers flex around black fabric as we come to a stop, and, with a lethal precision, I feint from Hun's backhand and slam a heavy heel into the behemoth's raising back.

With a grunt, his face meets the ground.

Satisfaction is a bitter tug on my lips; a smile I suppress with a crueler hand than the one that fists around Hun's hair. I lift his head up and lay my katana to his throat. All at once, his struggles stop. Hun might be able to withstand any strike that would prove bone shattering to others with barely a bruise to show for it. Or make a dent in the hood of a small vehicle and dust it off with a roll of his meaty shoulders. But a blade across the throat would end him. That is undeniable.

I wish he'd move, just so justice would have an excuse to be dealt by my hand.

Donatello approaches with an angry glower aimed at me; Mikey trudges behind. The sight of them draws my wrist back, just enough to let Hun breathe.

"What do you want, freaks?" he spits without a split second hesitation.

Leather rumples around my burrowing heel. "Answers, and you're going to supple them." I hiss.

"And if I don't?"

I answer with another ounce of pressure to the meaty neck and shift my gaze to Don. We speak without words, a whole conversation of silent accusations pass between us in the span of a blink. My chin tips forwards to his unrelenting and misdirected fury. _Well, go ahead then._

Donnie's throat bobs as he swallows down rage. His bo wrings under anxious fingers as he levels himself with Hun, but his voice does not waver. "Where is our brother."

Cold intimidation radiates from my purple clad brother, but Hun only laughs. "Dead, the last I checked."

"Liar!" Mikey cuts in before my jaw can unlock. Coming from the youngest, the single word sounds like a plea. The desperation, the _denial,_ they both bob too close to the surface.

A glare silence him instantly—_guiltlessly_. Even when his bright eyes brim with hurt at the wordless reprimand, I can't bring myself to care. Instead I hear the static laced recording in my head, see the sable warning painted across the warehouse wall.

Hun being here can't be a coincidence.

"We all know that isn't true," I say, evenly.

"Oh, I'm not lying," Hun taunts. "I beat half the life out of him myself. I'm surprised my master was as merciful as he was, killing him so quickly. Though, the begging might have helped..."

The art of speaking has left me. And before I can conjure control back, purple and brown blurs towards me and a crack splits the night.

Michaelangelo finds his voice before I do. "What the shell, dude?!"

"I've heard enough," is the genius' only justification.

"Donatello!" I snap, dropping the dead weight and standing upright. "_That_ was your big plan? Nearly get yourselves killed just to—"

"He wasn't providing us with any adequate information, this was just a waste of time." just like that, Don turns to leave. His bandanna tail flicking out like a childish tongue.

My fingers tack into his bicep, restraining him with the same contempt I treated Hun's now unconscious head to. I jerk him around, eyes flashing and words falling. "What the shell is your problem?!"

"My problem?" his brows collapse in anything but confusion. "You're the one with the problem, Leo!" he shoves me back.

And I stumble, surprised. Don withdraws his bo, spinning it with a deft and deadly practice. With a tremulous effort, I step away and force stoicalness into my tone.

"Donatello, stand down. This isn't helping things." _This isn't like you._ The sentiment goes unsaid. None of us are entirely ourselves, not with such a big piece missing from our lives. But this... this outward aggression is too much like one of Raphael's rages.

Old habits die hard, I suppose, because my feet slide apart, ready to defend.

"What were you thinking, Don? You two could have gotten yourselves killed, taking on Hun like that."

"Like what, without you?" he shakes his head in disgust. "As difficult as this may be for you to comprehend, _Leo_, we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves."

"That's not what I saw."

Before a word or wound can tear into the next moment, two sea green hands spread like shields between Donnie and me. Taut fingers flex towards the floor, a gesture of repose.

"Bros, take a breath."

"Stay out of this, Mikey."

His shoulders hitch against the order, but he doesn't move. "If you two are planning on killing each other," he says, bitingly, "Then fine. Just do me a favor and tell Splinter first."

Breathing sharply through my nose, I sheath my single sword and swallow a barb. My tongue tastes of bile, sour with the return of forgotten worries. Donatello does the same, though his mouth quivers and his eyes darken.

The orange masked turtle nods, his hands falling to his belted nunchucks. "We should get out of here before the boys in blue show up," he says, an edge in his voice that has never existed before.

Or maybe it's just the wail of nearing sirens that tinge his tone with panic and danger.

Numbly, I nod. "You two go home."

With a final scathing glare, Don glides past me. I listen to his gait, to a sewer lid grating against stone, to a muffled splash as he lands below.

"You aren't coming?"

A crestfallen frown makes me falter, and, just for a moment, I think of swinging an arm around the youngest. I imagine sloshing water on an otherwise silent trek home, of entering the lair that has become a tomb. Every minute spent there is its own hell, but one that holds my family. They're worth the agony...

"No," it slips from my tongue like a spittle of poison. Intoxication spikes through my veins, sealing out the bitter cold and bringing my arms over my chest. My gaze meets Mike's, long and hard, until his watery eyes freeze over to match the ice in my own.

"Why?" he demands.

_The night isn't over... my plans aren't finished... Hun is unconscious and this might be my only chance to—_

I draw my arms up and drop an innocent excuse. "I need some air."

"Where?" his voice quivers before he can stop it, the single sound more imploring than a death row defendant.

Guilt stalls my answer; a sideway glance at Hun selects an alibi. "I'm going to scope out Central Park, we haven't covered that area yet."

"Great, let's go."

I block his path. "The only place you're going, is home."

"Not without you."

"That's an order, Michaelangelo, this isn't up for debate."

"He's my brother, too," he says, adamant as a steel folded seven hundred times. "Just like you are, Leo. If you're taking risks, then so am I."

_Don't lose the other two, Leonardo._

I pinch my eyes against the sable paint plastered to the warehouse wall. And, with a fleeting glance at an opportunity I probably will never get again, I exhale and lead the way back to the waiting sewers.

Saki Enterprise will just have to wait.

* * *

**A/N: Dun dun da dun?! O.o**

**Yeah, well, let's just say the next chapter is where things get real... interesting. Title is:_ Apparitions of Thy Past_**

**Thanks so much for reading, y'all! And I would LOVE to hear what you think of NIU thus far. ^_^**

**Cheers! your red writing rebel.**


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